


Searching For A Feeling

by sakichyannn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Developing Relationship, F/M, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, POV Alternating, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-30 19:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8545525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakichyannn/pseuds/sakichyannn
Summary: In the aftermath of war, there is a long process of rebuilding. She struggles to reclaim herself, while he pricks himself on broken shards of his world. The two lost souls meet again in the patched-up walls of Hogwarts, searching for their respective answers, but in that process find each other too. [Post-War/Eighth Year/EWE/Developing Relationship/T (M in future)]





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned these characters I wouldn't be needing to pay off student debt
> 
> A/N: Hello there! I'm Saki and this is my first HP fanfic! I've been writing fanfiction for a couple of years, but I've never felt competent enough to take on HP because it's my oldest fandom and something so very close to my heart and so I was terrified of not doing it justice. I still am, but I'm hoping that this piece would fare alright. The title is inspired by "Searching for a Feeling" by Thirdstory, so if you would like to give that a listen, it would be great! I also have a playlist that goes along with this fic that I may share later :)
> 
> I plan on updating weekly if possible, depending on my schedule! I have a few chapters written up so far and a few more planned out. Please let me know your thoughts! Cheerios!

**_First Year_ **

The library was her safe haven.

Hermione Granger strode through the doors of the library, head high, books held to her chest tightly, and fighting stinging tears that threatened to spill from the corners of her eyes. She noticed Madam Pince's piercing glare as she stormed by—immediately, she softened her steps to reign in the loud clicks her loafers made on the marble floor, and lowered her head just a smidge. She couldn't afford to be in the strict librarian's bad books. Not today.

Not _ever_ , really—if that Weasley boy and the other Gryffindors were to continue to label her as an "insufferable _know-it-all_ " every time she tried to _help_ them with their schoolwork.

The library was the only place in this castle that she felt comfortable in anymore.

She made her way past the long tables that ran down the central aisle of the library, where a scattering of older students sat, and rounded a bookshelf towards the end of the room. Squeezing through the gap where two shelves that met at an awkward acute angle, she reached a large, round desk that fitted perfectly into a semi-hidden alcove. Today, an older Ravenclaw was the sole occupant of the table. He looked up briefly as Hermione approached, perhaps surprised to find a first year in the library this early in the term, but returned to his copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ without another word.

It was one of those rare early October days in the Scottish hills where sunshine still bathed the castle, catching glittering dust speckles in the air as it filtered through the aged castle's windows. Hermione only spared a second to relish the peace of the alcove and the rays of sunlight hitting the desk before taking a seat and opening up _The Standard Book of Spells_ to the last page she stopped at. She was two weeks ahead in the assigned reading, not that that was ever a bad thing, she reasoned, unlike what the boys said of her. How else would she have known to warn them against the perils of wrongly enunciating _Wingardium Leviosa_? Ronald Weasley could have scorched his stupid eyebrows off.

Instead he had mimicked her voice, to the amusement of the other boys with him—Seamus Finnigan, Dean Thomas, though at least Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom had looked somewhat uncomfortable.

Hermione let out a long breath, feeling her tears retreat. She looked down at her textbook and began to read.

 

000

 

**_Second Year_ **

" _Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size, and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken's egg, hatched beneath a toad…"_

Hermione's breath quickened as she read on, forgetting for a second how odd it was for her to find this now, a singular torn page left on her library table, between sheets of parchment.

" _Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death…"_

She knew then. Harry hearing the noises in the walls, the petrified victims, Hagrid's depleting flock of fowl…

She grabbed her quill and scribbled a note on the page before shoving her scattered notes and books off the table into her book bag and darting out of the library, page scrunched up in her fist.

She was unaware of the pair of silver-grey eyes that watched her leave from between the shelves.

 

000

 

**_Third Year_ **

Hermione didn't like to think of herself as a possessive person—but that was the only way to truly describe how she was feeling then. For two years she had occupied the alcove, occasionally sharing with other students near exam time as the library got busier, but it was really _her_ alcove. _Her_ spot. _Her_ escape whenever Ron and Harry's pestering for homework services got too much.

So when she rounded the usual corner today, seeking the solace of her alcove in the busier-than-usual library, and found a certain Slytherin sitting at her table, her hand closed around her wand in her pocket almost instinctively

Draco Malfoy looked up lazily from whatever book was open in front of him and raised an eyebrow, before his expression turned into a quiet sneer.

No one else was at the table. The alcove was relatively hidden between the two shelves anyway, but even so, everyone knew well enough to stay away from Draco Malfoy, even when he wasn't flanked by his usual burly cronies.

She stood between the towering shelves that led to the alcove— _her_ alcove—and stared down the boy with her jaw locked and her head high. Cold, grey eyes regarded her in return, full of disdain and challenge, mocking her, daring her to step closer.

She would've hexed him if not for the potential lifetime ban from the library that she could possibly incur. But Hermione was smart. She knew how to pick her fights.

She turned and settled at a table down the next aisle instead, between a Hufflepuff Prefect and Katie Bell from Gryffindor. Katie offered a small smile which Hermione returned, and settled into her homework for Ancient Runes.

When she looked up three hours later, it was to the sound of Madam Pince closing up the library, all the while throwing the last few difficult occupants out rather unceremoniously by charming their bags to float out of the vast room on their own accord while students chased after them. Hermione locked eyes with the librarian and hastily began packing her items before she incurred her wrath, while watching, with a great amount of satisfaction, Draco jogging hastily after his book bag as it drifted out of the library.

(Later in the year, Hermione would add this _trespassing_ of her property to the list of reasons justifying her breaking of Malfoy's nose in the grounds.)

 

000

 

**_Fourth Year_ **

After running into the blond Slytherin boy in the library a few more times over the course of the past two years, Hermione decided that it was about time to pick this battle. She had more or less figured out why he was always in the library—for pretty much the same reason that she was. Malfoy wouldn't be second to her in grades in every class if he simply hung around Crabbe and Goyle all day. Every time she had seen him in the library, he was bent over stacks of textbooks, furiously working through essays and assignments, much like she did herself. He studied as hard as she did...

…Which only served to tick her off further, for some reason. And how _dare_ he take over her spot in the library to do his studying. He was here again tonight. Hermione gritted her teeth this time and pushed through the gap between she shelves and sat down with solid determination at _her_ table. She was not giving up _her_ spot this time to some twitchy little ferret.

A twitchy little ferret that she had easily punched and broke the nose of last year.

She saw him look up and sneer as she unpacked her books, sitting directly opposite him to maximize the distance between them on the round desk.

" _Granger._ Sod off."

Hermione continued to calmly withdraw her notes from her bag. She didn't need to look up to know that the Slytherin's scathing glare was fixed on her.

"I said sod off you filthy Mud—"

The shrill shushing sound that the librarian made was welcoming to her ears as compared to Draco's impending insult. Hermione briefly looked up at Madam Pince, hoping her eyes communicated some form of gratitude but all she received in return was a quiet, threatening, _if-you-dare-speak-again-you-are-forever-banned_ glare from the librarian.

She could _feel_ Malfoy seething at her from across the large table, but did not remotely glance his way when he begrudgingly sat back down. She was mildly annoyed that he didn't pack his own bag and move to another table as she had hoped but continued to work, spreading his parchment out in a wider area around his seat to take up more space in an attempt to force her off the table.

But it was fine, she figured. Two could play at this game, and she was sure that by the end of the day the alcove would be rightfully hers again.

 

000

 

**_Fifth Year_ **

She had almost become accustomed to running into Malfoy here at least once a week now, since she was quite literally almost always in the library with the impending O.W.L.s and research on duelling spells for Dumbledore's Army while he came, almost like clockwork, every Thursday evening.

So when he wasn't at their—no, not their, _her_ —table tonight, Hermione found herself glancing around, wondering where he was. She uttered a mental curse a moment later, realizing what she was doing.

It wasn't like she was concerned, but if he wasn't here studying like a proper student, then the only other things that he could be up to were much less savory. At least, when he was around, she knew that he was just trying to beat her at Charms or Potions, but now he was probably terrorizing first years with the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad.

She got out of her seat about half an hour later, having finished the reading for McGonagall's class the week after, and passed through the shelves back into the main area of the library, hunting for advanced spell books to continue her research for DA. She wandered into a quieter section of the library, where there were no tables in order to accommodate for the closely packed shelves, with eyes fixated on on the spines of books to locate the second volume of the spell book series she had been perusing the night before…

And that's when she heard it—a girl's sharp breath, followed by the unmistakable sound of wet lips smacking together. Hermione snapped out of her focused search and squinted down the aisle she was in. It was empty. The sound had come from the next aisle, and as she turned her head to the left, she could see a gap in the books a few steps ahead.

In the weeks following this incident, Hermione would repeatedly scold herself for letting her curiosity get the better of her—but at this very moment she chose to walk forward and peer through the gap between the books into the next aisle, hands shaking slightly at her side.

The first thing she saw was the back of a girl's head—she had dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, but it had come somewhat loose from being pressed against the shelves. A pale hand with long fingers was cushioning the back of the girl's neck.

And then she caught a flash of platinum blond, and the next moment a pair of grey eyes were piercing her through the shelf, over the top of the girl's head.

Hermione's hand flew to her mouth to stifle her gasp—she turned and ran down the way she came before the couple could both turn around and catch her. Her feet carried her through the library with her hand still over her mouth and her heart ramming against her chest for having seen something that she definitely should not have witnessed. Madam Pince glared at her as she passed, but by this point she figured she had raked up enough good karma with the librarian to not be kicked out for brisk walking in the library.

She _knew_ that some people used the library for more than just studying, having overheard Seamus boasting a couple weeks ago about snogging Susan Bones in an unspecified area of the library, earning him a round of whistling from the boys and rolling eyes from Hermione. She _knew_ , and still probed the source of the sounds earlier.

" _Stupid_ ," she cursed quickly under her breath, while packing her books up with shaking fingers. She wanted nothing more than to leave the library now, should Malfoy choose to come back to her table and hex her for being a peeping tom.

She touched a hand to her face to sweep her messy curls back behind her ear, only to find her cheeks flaming. Still cursing silently under her breath, she threw the last of her quills into her bag and quickly made her exit, somehow managing to reach the safety of her dorm without encountering anyone she knew on the way back.

That night, Hermione dreamed of her kisses with Viktor Krum—only, by the end of the dream, Krum had blond hair and grey eyes. She awoke with a start, a string of choice curse words running through her head, and did not go back to sleep for the rest of the night,

Malfoy returned to the table the following Thursday, regarding her with a challenge in his eyes and the beginnings of a smirk on his lips as she sat down carefully, never breaking eye contact. Whatever apologetic urges she had felt in the past week vaporized and were replaced with the same fire in her veins that precipitated her punch back in third year. But the moment was gone quickly when he seemingly decided that she wasn't worth his time, and turned his attention back to his books, leaving Hermione sitting there, infuriated and embarrassed at the same time. She withdrew her own books with a bit more force than necessary, pretending not to notice the smirk that he cast towards the table when the books hit the surface.

 

000

 

**_Sixth Year_ **

It was one thing to take a quick nap on the desk when one got tired while reading, but it was another thing to sleep for an _entire hour_ on a _library_ desk. _On her desk_.

 _Sacrilegious_.

Their silent studying routine had returned, after the never-mentioned-again incident in fifth year. Though since the beginning of this year, Malfoy had spent more of his common library time with Hermione unconscious rather than studying. Hermione was losing her nerve for god-knows-why, even though, to be honest, the snoozing Slytherin opposite her was much more pleasant asleep than awake. He hadn't moved she arrived in her alcove an hour ago. A couple of textbooks were spread out around him, threatening to spill over to her half of the desk.

She had, on multiple occasions since her arrival, been tempted to wake him. The rational part of her stopped her, with the argument that she would get more work done now than when he was awake and threatening to curse her every time a corner of her parchment breached their unsaid division line. Then again, she didn't quite believe that he had it in him to actually curse anyone. Despite Harry's _ridiculous_ theory about Malfoy taking the Dark Mark and becoming a Death Eater, she just couldn't believe that Malfoy would be that stupid. He was a git, yes, but not a _stupid_ one. Even if his grades had slipped somewhat this year, he was still the only one that she felt was a real challenge to her spot as top of the class. (That is, even with Harry's newfound Potions prowess.)

His face was turned away from her as he rested his head on his stacked arms, but Hermione knew what she would see. Lately, Malfoy had been turning up in the Great Hall with dark crescents under his eyes, like he hadn't had a good sleep in months—which was understandable, given that Lucius was now in Azkaban for his slip up in the Department of Mysteries the previous year. But that was just the beginning of it. His usual pale skin had perhaps lightened another two shades and had adopted a sickly grey undertone. He looked perpetually exhausted in all of their N.E.W.T. classes, spending half of lecture period either dozing off or staring into nothing.

Not that Hermione had paid particular attention, but it was difficult not to, with Harry constantly going on about his conspiracy theories that Malfoy was now _one of them._ She unconsciously glanced at his stacked arms, and then at the pale blond locks that fell messily over them—just as he groaned and stirred. She snapped her eyes back to her book.

"G-Granger…" He croaked out, voice hoarse from lack of use. She briefly nodded and glanced at him to acknowledge his existence. He still looked ill, despite his rest.

"Finally awake, Malfoy?" She whispered back, gaze falling from his bloodshot eyes to the sunken hollows of his cheeks. He responded with a quiet groan as he rubbed his palms into his eyes, and Hermione returned to her book.

A few silent moments passed without any signs of books opening or quill scratching. Hermione glanced at him again, and this time his head was in his hands and he looked… _broken_. That was the only word that came to mind. His shoulders were slumped forward and he looked like he was taking deep, shuddering breaths to calm himself.

This time, her gaze lingered for a second too long. She met his grey eyes as he looked backed up. Instead of the usual cold, hardened grey, she looked into an empty swirl of slate.

"Granger," he began again. She was taken aback by the lack of hostility on his face—in fact, if the tension in his brows and the trembling corners of his mouth were any indication, Hermione would even venture to say that he looked _pleading_. "Granger, I—"

" _Shh!_ "

Malfoy positively jumped and looked frantically to his left, where Madam Pince stood and scolded them with her penetrating glare. Hermione swallowed as the librarian walked away, and turned back to Malfoy, who now stared down at his lap, his fists clenched and set atop the table.

"Malfoy?"

As if snapping out of a trance, Malfoy's eyes shot back up to meet hers, still wearing an unreadable expression, but Hermione knew that she wasn't going to get to hear what Malfoy was about to say. He stood up so quickly that he almost knocked over his chair. Slinging his bag over one shoulder and scooping up the rest of his books into his arms, he fled without another word.

When Hermione came to her senses, she realized she had stood up as well, apparently in the middle of wanting to follow him. She froze there for a second before settling back down into her chair with a sense of nagging unease at the pit of her stomach that she ignored.

Two weeks later, Harry stumbled into the common room, covered in blood that was not his. It took a while for a shaken-up Harry to recount the tale. How Malfoy was _crying_ , of all things. How terrified he had seemed. How the proud, arrogant Malfoy had fallen into pieces in the boys' bathroom. How Harry had hit him with a spell he learned from that god-awful potions book of his.

Malfoy didn't return to the library for the rest of that school year, and while Hermione got her wish to have her alcove back to herself, she never could shake the feeling that she had missed something important by not following him out that day. It wasn't until after wrenching a grieving Harry from the cold, dead body of their headmaster that she found out why Draco Malfoy had been tormented for the whole school year.

 

000

 

**_Seventh Year_ **

Her safe haven was torn apart.

Part of the east wall of the library had collapsed, giving Hermione a broad view of a partially cloudy May sky and the grounds below where more rubble laid. She took step after tentative step into the vast room—bigger now because of the torn walls and collapsed shelves.

It was over.

Harry had, with some help, settled into a much needed sleep in one of the stretchers that McGonagall placed in a side room off the Great Hall for some privacy. Ron needed time to properly grieve with the rest of the Weasleys. After giving the family of redheads hugs all round, her feet had carried her through the ruins of the castle to this room on the fourth floor where she had always escaped to. She needed a moment away, just a moment, away from Tonks and Remus's lifeless, joined hands, away from Fred's frozen smile, away from Lavender's torn throat. Away.

She squeezed past the shelves that still met at that same awkward acute angle despite the destruction that surrounded it. The windows that surrounded the alcove had shattered in the fight, leaving behind a view out to the Great Lake. Hermione raised her wand shakily, muttering _Reparo_ a couple of times, and the window had restored itself.

If not for some debris that still laid around the table, the alcove looked as it always did. Semi-hidden, quiet, with sunlight filtering through the window. The corners of her mouth barely raised a fraction of an inch.

She nearly reached the exit of the library when Madam Pince walked in, and her hand immediately flew to her mouth to stifle a cry that fought its way out of her throat. Hermione watched the older woman's eyes glaze over as she surveyed the damage to her beloved library… and finally land on Hermione. Hermione smiled weakly, and laid a hand comfortingly on the librarian's arm.

"We can rebuild this."

Madam Pince's nod was barely noticeable, but returned Hermione's gesture with a small, shaky, tearful smile nonetheless. She moved into the center of library as Hermione made her way out.

For some reason, she wasn't surprised was she noticed him in the hallway just as she stepped out of the library. Grey eyes met her brown ones through the loose locks of blond hair that fell in front of his forehead. His black suit was covered in dust and debris, and there was a bruise to the side of his head. He was too far away for her to make out his expression, but she couldn't move herself from where she stood.

She should hate him. Hurt him now when she had the chance, to make him pay for what his family had done, what he himself had planned but failed to do. Yet bubbling just beneath the thin veneer of hatred was simply a mixture of disappointment… and pity.

They remained like that for a moment longer—he, near the staircase at the end of the hallway, her, right outside the double doors to the room that they had begrudgingly shared for their school years. All the feuds that had transpired within the library felt so innocent now compared to the weight of what had just happened. The aftermath of the war hung heavily in the air between them.

Finally, Malfoy spun around and hurried down the stairs. The sudden movement broke Hermione out of her trance and she headed towards the same staircase with hurried steps of her own. He was gone by the time she reached the top of the stairs.

When she re-entered the Great Hall, Ron immediately came over, nursing a tin mug of tea in his hands.

"You missed it—the Malfoys just got taken away by Kingsley."

She gave him a brief nod, choosing not to say anything.

"Lucius deserves to be sent to Azkaban for life. Obviously his last stint wasn't long enough—"

"Ron, Narcissa did save Harry's life."

Ron sighed with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, whatever. But for all the crimes they committed before today—I still think they deserve whatever's coming to them. Even Malfoy."

"Can you get me some tea?" She implored quickly, wanting to change the subject. Ron muttered a " 'course" under his breath and limped back to the refreshments area. Hermione turned around to face the Entrance Hall, imagining the Malfoy family being herded out of the castle by the Aurors—Lucius, his proud frame finally defeated; Narcissa, her hand likely on Malfoy's shoulder, for Draco's safety was all that she sought in the past few hours; and Malfoy. _Malfoy_.

She thought back to Malfoy's unfinished sentence in sixth year—the haunted, terrified look in his eyes, the guilt that weighed on his slumped shoulders. Did he walk out with the same weight still crushing his sinewy frame? Did he walk out still pretending to have it all held together? When he had confronted them in the Room of Requirement the night before, his hands were shaking. He had spoken with feigned resolution of handing Harry over to Voldemort. His cronies had been absolutely vile, but Malfoy—Malfoy had simply looked _afraid_.

She wondered now, more than ever, what he had been so desperate to say that he was willing to confess it to her—the Mudblood that punched him and hexed him and, in his mind, did not deserve to walk the same ground as he did.

" 'ere you go, 'Mione."

Ron reappeared at her side, handing her a tin mug of her own. She accepted it with a quiet "thank you" and cradled the hot metal mug in her hands.

"It's all over now, isn't it?"

"..."

  

" 'Mione?"

"…It is."


	2. Aftermath

 

 

The end of war did not bring peace.

In the days immediately following the Battle of Hogwarts, families came to claim the fallen, and every now and then the heart wrenching cries of grieving parents, sisters, brothers, and lovers pierced the walls of the castle and reverberated down empty hallways. Hermione, returning from helping to clear the courtyard of debris, stopped at the open doors to the Great Hall. Most of the debris had been cleared, and the fallen warriors now lay on levitating platforms along the side walls, separated by curtains to create private spaces for loved ones to mourn. The corpses of the Death Eaters had been removed earlier that day, the parents of some of her Slytherin classmates laid in that midst. There was no set-up of this kind for them.

Down the centre of the Great Hall came a levitating platform with a body on it. Madam Pomfrey stood on the left with her wand raised, directing the platform, while a balding, bespectacled, kindly-looking man was on the right. In his arms was a blond woman, presumably his wife—grief-stricken, a handkerchief pressed to her face. He guided her weak, faltering steps as they followed Madam Pomfrey and the floating body out. Behind them, Hermione made out the figure of a younger boy. A former member of Dumbledore's Army.

They were close enough now for Hermione to make out the body, as she stepped aside to let them pass. Colin Creevey laid peacefully upon his platform, flanked by Madam Pomfrey and his parents, while Dennis, his younger brother, followed behind. Every now and then, Colin's father would reach out to adjust Colin's mop of blond hair, moving it out of his closed eyes every time a gust of wind messed it up. It was a gentle gesture, from a loving father to his son.

Her breath came in quick and shallow as she met Dennis' eyes. He wore the face and posture of someone who had emptied himself of tears—eyes swollen, fresh tracks still visible on his cheeks. Hermione froze. She wanted to do something for the young man, and raised her own shaking arm barely an inch before realizing that she didn't know what to do. She didn't know what to say. Dennis looked back at her with empty eyes for a moment, perhaps inferring her intention from her awkwardly locked arm, and gave her a small nod.

She swallowed. It felt like a lead ball had been wedged down her throat. She returned the nod, and the boy followed his family out of the gates, into the courtyard, where Ministry vehicles waited to transport them out.

Hermione took one last glance at the Great Hall. A woman who could only have been Lavender Brown's mother was screaming in a far corner of the vast room while two Mediwitches from St Mungo's tried to soothe her. The sound pulled Hermione out of her daze, and she hurried away from the Great Hall on shaky legs that threatened to fail her with every step.

After war, there was pain.

 

000

 

Fred's funeral was attended by all members of the Weasley family, Fleur, Harry and Hermione.

Hermione stayed by Ron's side while he shed silent tears, and on Ron's other side stood Harry, holding a trembling Ginny. She slipped her hand into Ron's and he squeezed it so tightly it hurt, like it was the only thing holding him together. Hermione quickly wiped her own damp cheeks with her other hand.

On the opposite side of Fred's fresh grave, Molly Weasley's small, stout frame was curled into her husband's hold, while Arthur Weasley patted her hair with his own trembling hand. Bill had an arm around his father's shoulders, while Fleur held his other arm, caressing it softly as a means of comfort. Charlie and Percy stood at the foot of the grave, grim-faced, with fresh tear tracks on their faces as well. Percy looked like he was on the brink of falling apart. He had been there, after all. He had been the butt of Fred's last joke.

It was only then that Hermione noticed that George was missing. She looked around and saw the other, _living_ Weasley twin, standing in tall grasses that surrounded the Burrow with his back to small congregation of mourners. He faced rolling, spring green hills that laid on the horizon, and the morning sun that was shadowed by clouds that morning. George was still, not shaking with tears like his mother or sister or brothers were; so still—he could have been the one that had just been laid to rest. A single figure, unmoving, whilst the weeds around him bowed to the wind that preceded the incoming spring shower.

After war, there was emptiness.

 

000

 

It took a little convincing, but Harry and Ron eventually accepted that it was something that she needed to do for herself. Hermione had it planned out—or at least, convinced them that she had it all planned out. She still had the muggle money she withdrew from her bank account before they embarked on the Horcrux hunt, which would last her a while in Australia if she managed her money well.

She was packed to leave the day after Fred's funeral, only bringing her little beaded bag with her. She had owled Kingsley and Professor McGonagall the day before, expressing her wishes to go to Australia to look for her parents. Professor McGonagall replied that evening, sending her regards, while Kingsley did not respond till the morning after, asking for a meeting at the Ministry to arrange for transportation.

Molly shed a few more tears as she hugged Hermione tightly before her departure. When Molly released her, still teary-eyed, Hermione was both relieved and crushed. On one hand, she felt exceedingly grateful for Molly's ability to still bring love and warmth to the family even at a time like this.

On the other hand, her overflowing maternal love just made Hermione yearn to see her parents more.

"Write to us, alright? Let us know if you need help," Ron said as he pulled away from a hug, his face scrunching up in concentration a moment later as a thought crossed his mind. "Oh—but can owls travel that far?"

Hermione let out a soft chuckle. "I'll send Harry emails. Harry can read them to you."

"What are emails?"

She smiled and shook her head, turning round to give Ginny and Harry hugs in turn. Harry gave her an extra tight squeeze and a nod in support. With a last few "byes", "take cares" and "I wills", she stepped into the fire place with a handful of Floo powder and sped towards the Ministry.

Hermione emerged directly into the fireplace of Kingsley's office, having established a temporary Floo connection to it. Kingsley had been the one to suggest it, as journalists had been flooding the main entrance to the Ministry ever since the Battle. Stepping out of the fireplace into the Minister of Magic's office, she took a deep breath and reminded herself to thank Kingsley for letting her come directly to his office. She was not sure if she would have been able to survive the journalists' onslaught of questions, asking for a first-hand account of the Battle from one third of the _Golden Trio_.

The office was large, about the same size as the Headmaster's office in Hogwarts, but instead of being decorated by portraits of past ministers, the walls were lined with world maps and maps of wizard Britain. In the middle of the room was a large, mahogany desk that was rather messy at the moment, with piles of precariously stacked documents and a few strewn copies of the Daily Prophet, including this morning's copy.

 

" _ **MINISTRY CONTINUES CRACKDOWN ON DEATH EATERS**_ _"_

" _In the latest statement released by the Ministry of Magic, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt reiterated that all members of the Ministry are currently working diligently on rounding up the remaining Death Eaters who were not apprehended or killed during the Battle of Hogwarts._

' _We urge all members of the wizarding community to be vigilant and report any sightings of suspicious activity to the Auror Office of the Ministry. We are also working closely with authorities across Europe to apprehend any Death Eaters who may have left London,' Minister Shacklebolt said last evening. 'Rest assured that the Ministry will not stop until each and every last member of the Death Eaters are put to trial for their crimes against the wizarding and Muggle communities.'_

 _T_ _he Daily Prophet has also gained intelligence that an unnamed former Death Eater is in fact providing the Ministry with crucial information regarding the Death Eaters who are still on the loose. When asked about this, Ministry representatives declined to comment…_ "

 

"Ah, Hermione."

She turned around at the sound of Kingsley's deep, calm voice. The open door that he just came through let in the din from the hallway, and Hermione must have frowned at the noise as Kingsley looked back through doorway and chuckled. The moment he shut the door behind him, the voices and hurried footsteps faded away.

"It's like that throughout the whole Ministry," Kingsley explained, crossing the office to his desk. "There is a lot to reorganize and take back here. Everyone's working as hard as they can to put the Ministry back together while helping the rest of the people."

Hermione nodded, offering an understanding smile to Kingsley. "It must be mad outside. Thank you for helping me, though, I'm sure you have a million other things to do right now—"

Kingsley tiredly waved a hand to stop her. "It's the least I can do, with what you have done. I have arranged for a special Floo passage straight through to Sydney for you. The Minister there is Boris Romano—he's an old associate of mine. He's dealing with some Voldemort-sympathizing rebellion groups right now, but he has agreed to help you settle in and perhaps give you some support if they can find the manpower."

She nodded quickly while her hands fidgeted with the string on her beaded bag. Kingsley caught sight of her movement, and his steady gaze turned into one of almost fatherly concern.

"I wish we could do more for you, Hermione—"

"No, I understand. It's a difficult time for everyone and this is my personal issue to deal with. I will approach the Australian Ministry if I run into anything."

"Yes. And if you ever need to reach out to us to arrange your return with your parents, or to give us any updates, just send your owl to Boris. He will pass it on to me."

"Thank you, Kingsley. I truly appreciate what you're doing for me."

"No need to thank me. Now, you would need this—" he reached into his pocket to retrieve a tiny vial of golden potion. "Long-haul Floo travel can be quite uncomfortable. Take this before you step into the fireplace. It will help with the compression and nausea. And here—" He held out a small piece of parchment, "—is the address of Boris' office."

Hermione couldn't resist a grin as she took the vial and parchment from Kingsley. "It's like taking anti-sickness medicine before a long flight."

"I'm sorry?"

"Ah, it's nothing," she muttered quickly before downing the vial in one gulp. It immediately gave her a warm sensation in her core. "I should get going now to meet Minister Roma—"

The door burst open with a loud _bang_ , and a breathless junior Auror stumbled into the room. "Minister, there's been an attack on Malf—" Her eyes finally fell on Hermione standing by the fireplace, and her mouth snapped shut. "S-Sir I'm sorry, but—"

"That's alright, Fawcett," Kingsley rose from his desk and spoke in his usual steady voice. "Have Aurors been dispatched?"

"Yes sir—"

"I'm afraid I have to leave you, Hermione. Take care, and good luck."

With a last nod of his head at Hermione, Kingsley hurried past her and followed Fawcett out the door into the riotous hallway. The door closed behind him and the office was thrown back into silence. Hermione took a last look around the empty office and stepped into the fireplace.

After war, there was chaos.

 

000

 

Draco's ragged breathing echoed around the main sitting room of Malfoy Manor, his wand still directed at the barely moving body of Augustus Rookwood. Deep gashes cut into Rookwood's torso from Draco's _Sectumsempra_ , and a sizeable pool of blood was now forming around his body. Behind Draco, in a corner of the vast sitting room, Narcissa was cradling an unconscious Lucius in her lap; her usually composed face was stricken with panic.

The roar of the fireplace alerted the family to the arrival of the Aurors. They stepped out, wands raised and alert, taking in the scene before them. Draco did not bother turning around. His head was pounding with anger and adrenaline. The knuckles of his wand hand were white from gripping it too tightly, but he didn't dare loosen up. Rookwood was still _breathing._

"Mr Malfoy," a deep voice called out behind him. Draco didn't move a muscle, his eyes still fixated on Rookwood's mangled body.

"Attend to Lucius and Mrs Malfoy," he heard the Minister say to several Aurors. "Fawcett, go to St. Mungo's and get help. _Be discreet_."

Another roar of flames. Murmurs between the Aurors and his mother, drowned out by the pounding in his head.

Kingsley stepped around him to kneel by Rookwood's body. The only indication that Rookwood wasn't dead was from the tiny movements of his torso as he took in small, shallow breaths. The minister had drawn out his wand and was now guiding the tip of it over Rookwood's wounds, muttering healing spells under his breath. Rookwood's breathing steadied, which only served to add fuel to Draco's utter fury. His head hurt. He wanted to punch something.

"Blackmore, Jones—keep an eye on Mr Rookwood," Kingsley called out after a while, and the two Aurors stepped forward to stand by the body. The one called Blackmore picked up Rookwood's wand from a short distance away and held on to it. Kingsley then turned his attention to Draco, who finally lowered his wand, and straightened his back to stand his ground defiantly against Kingsley.

"Mr Malfoy, you realize that you have violated the terms of your probation—"

"He attacked us," Draco snapped back, anger bubbling under the surface of his skin.

"We would have responded in time—"

"Oh and a bloody good job you did at that," he flung his arm out behind him to gesture to where Lucius was still lying unconscious, a nasty bruise spreading from his right temple across his forehead. " _Merlin forbid_ I draw my wand to stop someone from killing my father. What are you going to do? Throw me in Azkaban?"

Draco saw the minister's eyes harden as the words left his lips, though his anger prevented him from truly taking in the potential consequences of his taunt.

"Lucius has taken on a dangerous task of providing us with information, in exchange for your family's freedom—" Draco snorted. "Mr Malfoy, you must realize how fortunate your current situation is. Wizards have gone to Azkaban for doing much less than what your father and you have done—"

"Well, your source isn't much good to you if he's dead, eh?" Draco taunted further, his voice rising. Kingsley's face remained hard and unreadable. After a brief moment of silence, the fireplace roared to life again and Fawcett reappeared, this time with a Healer and two Mediwitches behind her. Draco watched as they quickly began attending to Lucius, forcing Narcissa to step out of the way as they did so. Draco took a step towards his mother, but Kingsley held out a hand to stop him. It took Draco all of his self-control and more to not hex the Minister.

"What?" He snapped, grey eyes ablaze.

"I will let it slide this time, Mr Malfoy. But the Department of Magical Law Enforcement will not look kindly upon your next infarction. You must remember that you now have the Trace on you again, and we will know if you perform any magic."

"Perhaps the Ministry should be more careful about protecting their most precious source of information then," Draco said through gritted teeth, shoving Kingsley's hand aside and storming over to where his parents were. Lucius had been transferred to a levitating stretcher. The senior Malfoy's head lolled to the side, revealing long, blond hair that was matted with blood from a gash he sustained to the back of his head. Draco's hand tightened around his wand again, his whole body shaking with anger now. Narcissa led the medical entourage out of the sitting room to move Lucius into a bedroom for treatment.

Draco was about to follow when the Minister called out to him again. He stopped, but did not turn around, angling his head slightly towards the side to indicate that Kingsley had his attention.

"I will station two Aurors at the Manor from now on, Mr Malfoy. For Lucius' protection."

_And my surveillance._

The fireplace rumbled, and by the time Draco was able to force himself turn around, all that remained in the sitting room was the pool of sickly, thick blood on the marble floor. An ugly stain upon his home.

Everything that was familiar about his family home had been removed during the Ministry raid a few days ago. Collections of artefacts, family heirlooms, portraits… Leaving behind empty rooms with bare walls and cold marble, housing a scattering of furniture that the Ministry had decided was not dangerous after a tedious inspection. They might as well have burned the whole Manor to the ground. It wouldn't have made that much of a difference to Draco. There was nothing left here that was familiar.

After war, there was… _Nothing_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know :( But I promise they will get longer and meatier beginning with the next chapter! It just felt right to cut it at where I have for this chapter. As usual, let me know your thoughts! End of semester is creeping up so I am doing my best to have a stock of chapters that I can slowly release.


	3. Rebuilding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A proper lengthed chapter this time! Thank you for all your lovely reviews so far ^w^ I'm really glad you guys are enjoying this piece. The next chapter might come in a little late, because I have been sick this whole week and didn't have much energy to write... and also Thanksgiving and FINALS are creeping up too... so I will do my best. But apologies in advance :c
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to my American readers who celebrate it! :)

A month and half after she arrived in Sydney, Hermione was down to her last 50 Australian Dollars. Sitting cross legged on the bed her small studio in Muggle Sydney, she counted her notes again.

Fifty-two dollars and thirty cents.

It hadn’t gone according to plan. The Australian Ministry had been too busy dealing with rebel groups and their own hoard of Voldemort-sympathizers to offer her help in tracking her parents, beyond settling her into her studio apartment and paying her rent. When she approached the British embassy, they were reluctant to give her information beyond her parents’ date of entry to Australia, because Hermione was a seemingly unrelated individual to Wendell and Monica Wilkins and had been unable to provide her own proof of entry to Australia (“by the Floo network” would have probably not sat well with the embassy officials). She walked out of the heavily guarded embassy under the watchful eyes of multiple guards, and had no chances of even drawing her wand. 

And thus she was left with combing through phonebooks, visiting hotels and narrowing down the areas of Sydney that her parents had been particularly enamoured with. The inefficient search left her physically exhausted by the end of the day and ate up far too much of her resources. 

She was tired. So very tired. She had approached Minister Romano a few times since her arrival, and she felt worse and worse each time she asked the man for help. The Australian Ministry was far smaller than the Ministry back home, being a far younger Ministry, and all staff—regardless of whether they were trained in duelling dark wizards or not—were involved in the fight against rebel groups. Minister Romano had expressed his sincere apologies. Hermione understood, but she couldn’t stop the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that drowned her each time she stepped out of his office.

It crept up through her now—starting in the pit of her stomach, clawing its way down her arms to her fingertips and up her chest into her throat, constricting it. Her last email to Harry, sent from a dingy internet café down the street from her residence two weeks ago, had still been full of hope. Maybe, she thought now, maybe she had been hoping for Harry to echo her optimism to convince herself that her lonely search for her parents in this large foreign country would yield some rewards soon.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her head between them, trying to fight her growing fatigue and loneliness.

Minutes passed. Perhaps hours, she couldn’t be sure. But slowly, she became aware of a relentless tapping noise on her left. Raising her head, Hermione cast a confused glance towards the window, finally focusing on the handsome barn owl that was tapping its beak on the glass.

 _Maybe they’ve found something—_  

The thought crossed her mind before she could logically process it. Pulse racing, Hermione slid off her bed and quickly retrieved the envelope from the owl’s beak, feeding it a portion of a stale cracker she had lying around that earned her a rather indignant hoot from the bird. Her initial excitement gave way to confusion as she turned the envelope around to reveal a Hogwarts seal instead of the Australian Ministry seal.

 

“ _Dear_ _Miss Granger,_

_I sincerely hope that you have achieved some progress on the immensely difficult task you have sought to undertake on your own, although the lack of correspondence from you has been somewhat worrying. It has truly been a difficult time for the Ministries to provide you with the aid you need, though I am certain that once the situation is stabilized, Minister Shacklebolt and Minister Romano will be able to aid you in your search more effectively._

_With that said, I am writing to perhaps persuade you to return to Hogwarts as soon as you are available. As the new school year approaches, the staff and I have been overwhelmed with efforts to rebuild the school, and we all unanimously agreed that having your capable hands on board would be most beneficial in restoring the castle for the incoming students._

_I also recall an earlier conversation of ours, where you had expressed ambitions to work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures in the future. This position would require several N.E.W.T.s that cannot be waivered unlike some other positions within the Ministry. If you are still keen to pursue this position, you may consider returning to Hogwarts for the rest of the school year and gaining your qualifications. Some of your fellow classmates—Mr Longbottom and Mr Thomas, to name a few—will also be returning this year, so you will have some familiar company._

_I understand that the choice would be a difficult one, but I am obliged to inform you that there are magically binding age-regulations regarding the maximum age that a witch or wizard can take their N.E.W.T.s at, and I unfortunately do not have control over that._

_Please take all the time you need to come to a decision. The doors of Hogwarts would always be open to welcome you home._

 

_Sincerely,_

_McGonagall_ ”

 

The Ministry owl continued pecking at the packet of stale crackers, stopping occasionally to regard the witch with wide eyes. Hermione re-read the short letter from Professor McGonagall several times before setting it down on the small desk in the corner of the studio. Walking back to her bed, she reached for the one of the photos of her parents that were scattered on covers along with several maps of Sydney. Mr and Mrs Granger smiled back at her from the photograph, a younger version of herself with a toothy grin sandwiched between them, while the Eiffel Tower stood tall in the background.

Everything felt so far away now.

She had said it herself to Ron and Harry in the Burrow before Bill’s wedding that she had cast a good enough charm that her parents would be quite happy in their new life, without the knowledge that their daughter had entered a war, had been tortured, and had ruthlessly inflicted harm upon the enemies. 

And perhaps… Perhaps that was enough for now. Perhaps it would be easier to repair the damages of the war if she didn’t try to do everything at once. Perhaps laying low was still the best option, especially with the rebellion uprisings across international wizarding communities, and Hermione’s newly established public status as a war heroine that effectively marked her as a high-profile target for the rebels.

The war was not over. Wendell and Monica Wilkins were safer here… _for now_. They could go back to being Drs Granger and Granger when the world regains some semblance of normalcy.

With trembling hands, she placed the photograph gently back down on her bed, and returned to her desk to pen a quick reply on the back of the parchment for Professor McGonagall, knowing that whoever receives it in the Australian Ministry would have some means of passing the message on.

The owl was getting restless at this point, and gave a loud peck dangerously close to Hermione’s fingers as she approached it with her letter. She cringed, muttered a soft “sorry,” and held out the letter gingerly for the owl to grasp. It took off silently into the grey winter skies.

 

000

 

“…as such, the committee have decided that this is the best course of action. You will depart for Hogwarts in two weeks.” 

“No,” Draco said through gritted teeth. Kingsley, seated in an armchair across from Draco in the vast sitting room of the Manor, furrowed his brow lightly. 

“This is not an offer, Mr Malfoy. These are the new terms of your probation. Professor McGonagall has fought hard against the regulations surrounding your house arrest—” 

“I don’t need her help—” 

“—she did so in accordance with Professor Dumbledore’s last wishes,” Kingsley finished sternly, fixing the younger man with a gaze that reflected the gravity of his words. Draco’s jaw had slackened in surprise, and he opened and closed it a few times in his attempt to find a choice retort. None came to him. He heard his mother, seated next to him, draw a deep breath.

“It was amongst Professor Dumbledore’s last wishes that, if your errors did not warrant a stay in Azkaban, for you to return to finish your education, once Hogwarts was rebuilt. Lucius’ help significantly lessened the sentence for you and your family, such that Professor Dumbledore’s wish can now be fulfilled.”

Draco’s mind whirred back to the night on the Astronomy Tower. He had Dumbledore cornered, wandless, at his mercy, and yet the old crow only looked back at him with… worry and kindness and disappointment. He should have been _afraid_. Instead, Draco had been the one who was shaking despite the control he held over the most powerful wizard in the world.

 

 _“Killing someone isn’t as easy as innocents make it out to be…”_  

_“I have no options—I have got to do this.”_

 

How could Dumbledore possibly want him back in the castle, after all he that had done to desecrate the school?

“…he believes—and I think your mother would agree—that your probation period would be better spent in Hogwarts than here. As you are surely aware, there are magically binding age-regulations for the N.E.W.T.s. After your sentence is up, you would be above the maximum age. Without the necessary qualifications—” 

“I know,” Draco snapped. His knuckles were turning white with exertion as he tried to shake himself of the guilt and disbelief that his dead headmaster, the one he betrayed, would still be showing him kindness, even in death. “I’m not stupid.”

There was another silent pause. Kingsley retained his composure, simply looking between Narcissa and Draco with stern, humourless eyes. His gaze bore into Draco’s soul, forcing him to confront his betrayal. Draco wanted to run.

A slender hand, as pale as his own and elegantly manicured, laid itself over Draco’s own tense fist. He relaxed somewhat under his mother’s touch.

“In two weeks, Mr Malfoy, we will arrange for a special, one-time Floo connection from the Manor to Professor McGonagall’s office. She will have someone prepare the necessities for the school year for you." 

“At least I’ll be able to use magic again,” Draco muttered under his breath, through gritted teeth. “Instead of being forced to live like bloody _muggles—”_

“Your Trace will not be removed. We will know if you perform unregulated magic,” Kingsley rose from his chair, and Narcissa mirrored him, holding herself proper and tall, with an air that, at this point, felt somewhat out of place in the hallowed halls of the Manor. “Remember Mr Malfoy, this freedom—”

Draco snorted.

“—was hard won by your father’s decision. Do not waste it.”

With that, the minister strode into the fireplace and vanished in a roar of flames. The sitting room reverted to its silence. Narcissa placed her hand on Draco’s shoulder, soothing him gently.

“I’ll have Poppy gather some items you might need.”

“They said McGonagall would get everything.”

“I know, but wouldn’t you like to have something from home?”

Draco stayed silent. What _could_ he take? A column from the façade of the Manor?

“Draco?”

“What would happen to Father?”

Narcissa’s hand paused on her son’s shoulder for a moment. “Well, _I’m_ not going anywhere, so I will be keeping your father company.”

“Putting me in Hogwarts… This is just ridiculous—”

“We must count the blessings we are given, Draco,” she said in a rather defeated tone. “The war is over now and we must accept the consequences of our decisions.”

“But they weren’t all your decisions—”

“I am Lucius’ wife and your mother, Draco. I know my duty is to stand by you both. Even if…” She trailed off, and he looked up at her with furrowed brows.

“Mother?”

Her momentary lapse in composure had come and gone. She had already restored her features to carry a small, soothing smile.

“Nothing, Draco. Come now—let’s have a look around.”

 

000

 

_Everything—everything around her was covered in blood. The nauseating metallic stench of it attacked her nostrils and she fought hard to keep herself from throwing up. She was running through some hallway of Hogwarts—she didn’t really recognize it, which only made the scene before her more sinister and macabre._

_Her heart was ramming against her chest so hard and so fast that it physically hurt, but she couldn’t stop running. She had to get to something at the end of the hallway—someone’s life depended on it, she just knew—_

_And suddenly she was there, amidst debris and shouts and spells whizzing overhead. She was too late. Nymphadora Tonks’ body lay mangled on the ground, limbs bent in the most unnatural, gruesome manner. A second later, a second body tumbled over on her left, and Hermione jumped back with a scream as Remus Lupin collapsed, a few feet away from Tonks. He too was covered in bruises and cuts, and with the last of his strength he reached out for Tonks’ hand._

_He never reached her—there was an explosion beneath all of them, and Hermione felt the stones below her give way—_

 

And suddenly she was staring at the ceiling of the Gryffindor dormitory, breathing hard. Sweat had made stray locks from her plait stick to her neck and heaving chest, and she threw a shaky hand over her face to try to shut out the images that brought stinging tears to her eyes. Tonks. Lupin. They were long gone.

It took a few more moments to gather herself before getting up. She swung her legs over the side and drew back the curtains of her four-poster bed. A quick glance at the Muggle alarm clock on her bedside table told her that it was just barely past seven in the morning, a little too early to be heading for her appointment. She slipped her toes into some fluffy slippers, threw on a robe, and shuffled through the still-empty dormitory towards the girls’ bathroom.

The rest of the students had yet to arrive for the school year, and Hermione had spent the past weeks being the sole inhabitant of the Gryffindor Tower (though sometimes, Nearly-Headless Nick would join her in the evenings for a bit of reading in the common room). Hermione thought she would enjoy the quiet—but as the nightmares started, the solitude became harder and harder to bear.

It was always the same few dreams—running through a war-torn castle, reaching friends too late, blood, _blood everywhere_ —and then she will wake, sometimes before her alarm rang, and spend the day helping Professor McGonagall with administrative matters, or helping whichever Professor that needed her help with class materials or repairing classrooms. At the end of the day, the sight of Sir Nicholas seated in one of the Gryffindor armchairs, reading a ghostly copy of some medieval chivalrous romance, was more welcoming than she thought it would be.

After going through her simple morning routine, she got dressed in a light jumper and some jeans to fight the morning chill, and headed out of the castle towards the grounds for a walk before the day started. The castle was now in significantly better shape. Walls have been rebuilt and redecorated with portraits, hallways were properly lit and dusted, and the courtyard had been fully restored to its former glory. Hermione stood here now, in the soft light of dawn, surveying the area. Her eyes landed on one particular corner of the courtyard that she had only absentmindedly glanced over last time when she doing repairs— 

She remembered it all too clearly. Blasting Fenrir Greyback off the twitching, bleeding body of Lavender Brown. It didn’t matter in that moment how much Hermione had disliked the Gryffindor girl. Nothing Lavender did made her deserving of this gruesome end. Hermione felt bile bubbling up her throat at the vivid image of Lavender lying there, her skin an ashy grey, uniform stained by her own blood that was pouring profusely out of her neck. She forced her legs to move and fought down her urge to vomit, crossing the courtyard quickly. 

She burst into the grounds, hungrily taking in large gulps of fresh air to quell the anxiety in the pits of her gut. It was one of the last few sunny days before autumn came, and by the time she reached the lake, the morning sun had risen enough to cast a shimmering glow on the water surface. She picked up a flat pebble near her foot and tried skipping it across the lake—it landed flat in the water without skipping and sunk miserably. She tried again, managing one measly skip this time, though watching the ripples brought a smile to her lips as she recalled the time Ron taught her how to skip pebbles. It had been a brief moment of calmness amidst the tension of their hunt for the Horcruxes. 

She tried a few more times before giving up, and began walking round the edge of the lake to shake off her nightmare. An hour later, she headed out of the gates of the grounds towards Hogsmeade, where she was to meet Ron and Harry for brunch on one of their few days off from Auror training. Stepping into the warm interior of the Three Broomsticks, she was greeted by the welcoming scent of pumpkin juice and hot pancakes and sizzling bacon. She caught sight of the duo seated at a corner table in bustling pub, undisturbed by other residents of the village who knew to give them privacy. Harry spotted her entering, and waved her over with a tired-looking smile.

“Hello Harry, Ron,” she gave them both quick hugs, before seating herself opposite the boys, ordering a full English breakfast as a waitress passed by. Both of them looked rather tired, but Hermione would venture to say that they looked better than when she last saw them at the Burrow. 

“How’s the castle, ‘Mione? Has it been all fixed up?”

Hermione nodded, in the midst of taking a sip of her pumpkin juice. “It’s all done and ready now, I’ve spent the last week or so helping Professor Slughorn restock his ingredients cabinet.

“Is he back to his usual bragging?” Harry asked with a small chuckle. 

“Yes, he is,” Hermione couldn’t help but smile back. “He spent the better part of our time together telling me about his connections within the Ministry, and how he would put in a word for me when I apply… But I suppose, it’s good to see things going back to normal.”

“Normal, yeah,” Ron mumbled, and a sudden iciness spread through Hermione’s stomach. Harry had mentioned it in a letter just a week ago—and Hermione had forgotten it in that moment—that the Weasleys had to remove all the mirrors in the house and cast anti-reflection charms on all the glass after finding George collapsed in the bathroom one day with severely bloodied knuckles. The shattered remains of the bathroom mirror laid around him.

She glanced at Harry, who took a sip of his tea quickly and avoided her gaze. She cleared her throat nervously.

“H-How’s Auror training going? I suppose Kingsley must be working you guys hard.”

The change of subject seemed to bring Ron out of his daze, and he looked back up at Hermione with a brighter, somewhat amused expression on his face.

“He’s bloody _drilling_ us, Hermione. You’d think that with all we’ve been through he’d cut us some slack.”

“Well the Aurors are highly regimented, so they would have extra strict training—who’s the Head of the Auror Office now anyway?”

“Some bloke named Sharif—he’s not necessarily the strongest Auror, but I think Kingsley made him the Head after he managed to re-organize the Auror office within a week after the war.”

“That’s impressive!” Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise at Harry. “But I suppose that’s what you need right now.”

“Yeah. Training’s harder than I thought it’d be. There’s some stuff that I swear I would’ve remembered from Hogwarts, but it’s not coming to me immediately.”

Hermione grinned. “Maybe you should have done your own homework then, Ronald.” He smiled sheepishly back at her in response.

“Speaking of school, do you know what your year is going to be like? Will you be just taking classes with the seventh-years?”

“I suppose so,” Hermione replied. “I hear Neville and Dean are getting in this afternoon, and some Ravenclaws are also going to be arriving tonight.”

“Ginny too,” Ron piped up. “She’s quite glad you’d still be around.”

“And I’m glad to have her around too. I think… I think it will be a good year.”

“I still wish you would’ve joined us though, ‘Mione. You were always the best at spells anyway.”

“Thanks Ron, but—”

“We know, we know,” Harry said quickly with a lopsided grin. “You wouldn’t be Hermione Granger if you didn’t get your seven ‘Outstanding’s N.E.W.T.s—”

“I’m not going to get seven ‘Outstanding’s—”

“Fine, six ‘Outstanding’s and one ‘Exceeding Expectations’ then.”

“ _Harry_.”

 

000

 

For a woman who had supposedly pleaded his case in front of the Wizengamot, McGonagall was anything but warm and forgiving. From the moment Draco had stepped through her fireplace, dusting soot off his suit onto the carpet in the Headmistress’ office, he had received nothing but stern looks and curt instructions.

“…there will be one other Slytherin student, Mr Heryntton, returning this year along with you, Mr Malfoy. He will be arriving this evening and will be sharing your dormitory…”

There was one other thing that made him extremely uncomfortable in this room, and it had nothing to do with the fact that he was getting a talking to like he was a bloody first year. Dumbledore was snoozing in his portrait directly behind McGongall’s chair. He was, even in this two-dimensional portrait, as he always was—serene, wizened, powerful. The incident on the Astronomy tower was the first time Draco had seen the late Headmaster as anything but such.

He felt it again—that sickening concoction of guilt and anger and rejection of Dumbledore’s pity that constricted his throat. He could swear that the portrait Dumbledore was faking his slumber and watching him. Any moment now the old wizard would crack open one piercing blue eye and tell him how disappointed he was—

“Mr Malfoy, are you listening?”

He snapped his attention back to the stern witch before him and held her with a cold, hard gaze. She did not falter. Her lips pressed into a thin line, McGongall regarded him with what he could only perceive as disdain.

“It would do you some good to remember that you are solely here upon the good graces of Professor Dumbledore—”

“I never _asked_ for this—”

“No, you did not, and frankly you will have to continue to prove to me and the staff that you are deserving of being here. I will not forgive any infarctions lightly, Mr Malfoy. Are we clear?”

He glared back at her.

“…You may leave. The house elves will be bringing your belongings to your dormitory in a moment. The feast begins at seven, should you be inclined to join us.”

He got up to leave without another word, taking care to slam the door behind him. He jogged down the spiral staircase with the small suitcase he brought from home in one hand and his other hand shoved angrily into the pocket of his dress pants. He had to get away before the portrait of Dumbledore awoke. He wanted to get away from this whole bloody school if he could—

He had reached the bottom of the stairs, and stood alone in the familiar hallways of the castle. The gargoyle behind him swung back into place. It was a mistake coming back here. With a shaky hand, he reached up to loosen his tie, turning towards the staircase round the corner.

“…Malfoy?”

His hand stopped fidgeting with the immaculate Windsor knot that Narcissa had done up for him earlier. The voice was unmistakeable. Sure enough, when he looked up, Granger stood a few feet ahead at the corner of the hallway, wearing an expression that was somewhere between confusion and shock.

“Granger,” he spat as it hit him. “Of course you’d be here.” There was no way the _brightest witch of their age_ wouldn’t jump at a chance to redo a whole school year and get her qualifications.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“Taking a bloody vacation,” he retorted sarcastically, taking a few steps towards her. She stood grounded with her jaw set, regarding him with suspicion. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You… You’re back for the year too?”

He looked down at her with his hand still in his pocket. It was the first time he had properly seen her since the war began a year ago. She seemed… smaller, he noticed. Her shoulders looked thinner, no longer carrying that annoying air of bravado that so many Gryffindors carried in the war. Even her bushy mess of hair seemed to have deflated somewhat. Her usual steady, fiery gaze faltered for a second as their eyes met.

Something wasn’t quite right about this Hermione Granger.

“Malfoy, I asked you a question.”

“It’s hardly my choice,” he answered with a cold drawl. “Not all of us are jumping up and down at the thought of coming back here.”

“…I just never thought _you_ would be here,” she glared back at him with some resolve. “The last I heard, your family was under house arrest—”

At the mention of his parents, Draco’s grip tightened on his suitcase unconsciously. Granger didn’t seem to notice, as she continued to challenge him with her gaze.

“It’s none of your business, Granger,” he hissed through gritted teeth and pushed his way past her, storming towards the staircase. The castle was still mostly empty at this point, as most of the students were arriving that evening, and Draco relished the solitude, if only to escape the inevitable whispers and pointing fingers. He weaved through the corridors with hurried steps, letting his feet guide him through the familiar hallways, until he reached the Slytherin dungeons.

He hadn’t been in this room in a year.

The Battle seemed to have spared this corner of the castle at least. While the rest of the school bore the marks of fresh repairs and new décor, most of the Slytherin common room remained as he remembered. Cold. Dark. Damp. 

 _Familiar_ —yet with all that has happened, the looming tapestry of the Slytherin serpent on the wall in front of him only made the room more suffocating than it usually was. It used to stand as reminder of the glorious vision of their founder and what it meant to be a Slytherin—pure, deserving of magic. But that what it meant to be a Slytherin in the past. What it meant to be a Slytherin during the war, what it meant to be a Slytherin now…

Draco hadn’t figured the last part out. He wasn’t sure he knew _how_.

 

000

 

 _Probation_.

Professor McGongall had explained Malfoy’s situation to Hermione in simple terms when Hermione ventured into her office after the hallway encounter with Malfoy. She could tell the Headmistress was somewhat uncomfortable with the arrangement, and frankly, she was too. But if Professor Dumbledore had wanted it, and if what she heard about Lucius aiding the Ministry was true, then perhaps this was an arrangement that she could accept.

She glanced over to the Slytherin table in the Great Hall now. All four house tables were less crowded than they were before the war, because of students who had sacrificed themselves in the war, students who needed time off to cope with the aftermath of the war, and students who had been transferred elsewhere by the parents after Hogwarts became a battleground. But the Slytherin table was particularly sparse compared to the other three houses. Few had returned. The majority of those were younger students who were not involved in the war, and a handful of those who had fought alongside Professor Slughorn during the war. As far as she could tell, those in her year whose parents were Death Eaters were not present.

Except for Malfoy.

Even with the sparsely occupied tables, his isolation stood out. He sat a good distance away from all the other pockets of Slytherin students, with his elbow propped up on the table and his chin resting on his hand, picking at his food with feigned boredom. The others at the table occasionally shot not-so-secret glances his way, but Hermione couldn’t read them.

It was common knowledge now that Malfoy was a full fledged Death Eater and had contributed to the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, and Hermione couldn’t really blame the other Slytherins for being apprehensive. There weren’t many other choices in the matter with memories of the war still fresh in everyone’s minds. If anything, Professor McGongall’s presence on the podium earlier, giving the traditional start of year speech in her strict manner that was in such contrast to Professor Dumbledore’s confusingly, eccentric, enigmatic speeches, was yet another reminder of what had been lost in the war.

She pulled her attention back from the isolated blond Slytherin and turned back to the conversation at the Gryffindor table. Neville had returned, and so had Dean, both still sporting several faint battle scars that were caused by dark magic and therefore took longer to heal. Dean was currently discussing with Ginny the possibility of rejoining the Quidditch team, while Neville listened on with an amused smile, finding no chance of interjecting. Hermione spotted Luna earlier at the Ravenclaw table, along with others who had returned to retake seventh year, like Michael Corner and Terry Boot. Of the Hufflepuffs, she recognized Justin Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott, seated together with a few others in Ginny’s year, deep in conversation. Justin caught her eye, and her fellow Muggle-born classmate gave her a friendly nod.

“—Hermione, c’mon, you agree that I can make it back on the team, don’t you?”

She quickly turned to Dean, who was looking at her with a joking grin. She glanced between him, Neville, and a somewhat exasperated Ginny, and felt her face relax into a smile.

“It’s up to Ginny, she’s the captain now—”

 

Rebuilding took time, but they were taking steps.

 


	4. Potions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I went to Universal Studios Orlando for the first time over Thanksgiving weekend and I basically had a near religious experience exploring Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley and now I have this renewed fervour to WRITE THIS SHIT and 3 other fic ideas that I have bu and I have 30 pages of academic writing to do in the next week or so, so PLEASE BEAR WITH ME, the next chapter may only come in two weeks or so, depending on how much I procrastinate my academic papers :P Please let me know what you think about this chapter, it will start getting more interesting from here! xoxo

The last thing Hermione remembered before she opened her eyes was Colin Creevey's mangled body falling through a fissure in the ceiling and onto the floor before her.

She was sitting upright, breathing heavily, having been shocked awake by the image. She could still see it behind her eyes—Colin's lifeless gaze meeting hers for a split second as she looked down upon his body. Colin. Colin who had idolized Harry and fought with Dumbledore's Army. Colin with his milkman dad and little brother Dennis. Colin with his grieving mother.

Hermione pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her forehead on her knees for a second, gathering herself. Judging by the dim light in the dormitory, she hadn't woken up at an ungodly hour this time, even though she felt like she had only closed her eyes for a few seconds. It was certainly not the best way to start the first day of classes, but as sleep had abandoned her, it was time to start her day.

After a simple breakfast with Ginny, who had a meeting with Professor McGonagall immediately after to discuss Quidditch plans for the year, Hermione headed to Charms with a sense of fatigue and lethargy weighing her bones down. Professor Flitwick greeted her with a friendly nod as she took her usual seat in the classroom, already somewhat filled out by seventh year students that she didn't recognize. She pretended to be engrossed in her textbook while they pointed and whispered, and ignored the fact that other students streaming in avoided the seats right next to her—until Dean walked in and took the seat to her left.

"Hey there Hermione," he offered a bright smile as he sat down.

"Morning, Dean," She returned his smile. For someone who had been on the run for the past year like her, Dean seemed to have recovered exceptionally well, and his relief to be back in Hogwarts was clear.

"Seems a lil' strange, dunnit?" He looked around the classroom with some bemusement, and she followed his gaze, watching the younger students quickly dart their attention to Professor Flitwick or their desks. "I hardly recognize anyone here."

She chuckled. "I know, it's a strange feeling. But at least there's the bunch of us—I think Justin and Michael are going to be in this class too—"

Her final words rang out extra loudly in the classroom as someone gasped loudly and all the murmuring about her and Dean stopped abruptly. The girl who gasped was red in the face as Malfoy looked at her with eyes cold enough to freeze the Great Lake over on a summer day. All the uncomfortable attention was directed to him now, the war criminal, donning school robes that they thought he didn't deserve.

The last time she saw him as such—half done tie, elegantly combed hair, signet rings on his slender fingers—he had yet to let Death Eaters into the castle, yet to make unforgiveable mistakes. On the surface he was the same young man with pale skin and light hair and a characteristic sneer on his face, but everyone knew that the difference between then and now went far beyond the mark upon his left forearm.

His eyes, scanning the room while he stood frozen, fell upon hers and for a second they seemed to soften a tiny fraction, perhaps from the comfort of seeing at least one familiar face in the room.

"Mr Malfoy," she heard Professor Flitwick say curtly in his usual wheezy voice. "Please find your seat. We are about to begin."

She watched him with her jaw tight and her fists clenched under the table as he quickly took a seat in the furthest corner of the classroom. Michael and Justin stumbled in barely a second after Malfoy took his seat and settled down a short distance away from where Hermione and Dean sat. Justin turned around to give them both a friendly wave, which Dean and Hermione reciprocated with smiles, as Professor Flitwick began addressing the class.

By the end of class, Hermione had scratched down perhaps less than a page of notes on Disillusionment charms and couldn't recall most of what Professor Flitwick had said about assigned reading. She knew what she had been doing—alternating between staring beyond the windows behind the teacher's podium to the forest and glancing at Malfoy, who spent most of class napping on his desk. She wanted to kick herself mentally for not paying attention, but in all honesty felt even too fatigued to do so.

To make matters worse she had incorrectly answered one of Professor Flitwick's questions, which had, in her memory, never occurred before, thus drawing more murmurs and secretive looks from the other strangers and a "It's alright dear, good try" from the perplexed Professor.

It was off to a bad start.

She parted ways with Dean quickly after class as he headed to Care of Magical Creatures and she to Advanced Arithmancy, where the small class size of 6 forced her to pay more attention to Professor Vector, and barely made it through the difficult material with a clear head. By lunchtime, Hermione was drained. She sat alone at in the Great Hall, a distance away from the chattering younger Gryffindors, and picked at a pathetic portion mince pie without much appetite.

Her next class was Potions, which she was not looking forward to for a multitude of reasons; for one, Professor Slughorn had returned to his old collecting ways and was now keen to add her to his self, with her newfound _war heroine status_ that she still had trouble confronting. To make the class even more uncomfortable, none of the other returning Gryffindors were taking the class, nor were any Gryffindors she was familiar with, leaving only Terry, Michael and Malfoy as the other returning students in the class with her.

By the time she walked into the dungeon classroom, having finally given up on her meal, most of the tables that were set up for the N.E.W.T. level class were occupied. There were two benches of regular seventh years, while Michael and Terry occupied a two-person bench, leaving one last two-person bench open. She took her seat at the open bench while the seventh years cast her not-so-secretive glances, and a rising unease in her throat was confirmed when Malfoy was the last person to stride into the classroom, followed closely by Professor Slughorn, who shut the door behind him.

For the second time that day, their gazes met, and Hermione could pinpoint the exact moment when Malfoy understood the situation. His eyes narrowed, jaw tightened, and he walked towards their bench with hard, angry steps. His bag hit the ground with an equally angry thud as he slid rigidly into his seat, not before shifting it several inches away from her towards the edge of the bench.

Hermione let out a shaky breath that she had not realized she was holding in, casting her eyes forward to where Professor Slughorn had begun introducing the class, but her posture remained as stiff as Malfoy's. The last time she had been this physically close to him, she had broken his nose. She didn't notice back then, or perhaps it was a habit he picked up later, but he smelled of expensive cologne. A tinge of cinnamon with geranium and sandalwood, and a multitude of other things she couldn't pick out.

Her eyes swept across the classroom again, to avoid looking at the blond Slytherin next to her and thinking about how warm and non-threatening he smelled ( _could someone smell non-threatening?_ )—Michael appeared as uncomfortable as she was, but Terry…

Hermione had seen enough during the war to pick out murderous intent from someone's gaze. And Terry's wide eyes, fixated in her general direction, was burning with it.

"—Ms Granger?"

Her head whipped forward and noticed the rest of the class looking expectantly at her, along with a mildly concerned Professor Slughorn. "Y-Yes sir?"

"Could you tell us the key ingredient in a Shrinking Solution, Ms Granger?"

"U-Um…"

_Shrinking Solution. Chapter 3 of Advanced-Potion Making. Includes… includes…_

"Come on now, Ms Granger," Professor Slughorn let out a hearty, if not somewhat nervous chuckle. "You have the answer for us, don't you?"

"I… I don't remember, sir. B-Billywig, perhaps?"

The momentary disappointment that fell across Professor Slughorn's face was all the indication she needed. An iciness spread from her gut through her torso, down to her fingertips. "Not quite, Ms Granger, but a good try—it's our first day back after a long year, not to worry, you'll be back on it in no time." Another nervous chuckle. "It is in fact shrivelfigs—"

_Shrivelfigs. Of course._

"Now, I understand some of you may have made this in your previous years under the tutelage of the late Professor Snape, but have not quite succeeded. This potion is disastrous should you get it wrong, and so we will be tackling it again this year, in pairs—"

_Pairs?_

Malfoy's knuckles were white. As if to answer their shock, Professor Slughorn cast a somewhat apprehensive glance at the two of them specifically. Evidently, like them, he had not foreseen the unusual seating arrangement.

"In pairs, yes, so you can look out for what each other are doing and consult. You will be attempting the brew together today, and submitting a report evaluating your potion's quality by next class. We will be doing this for multiple difficult potions throughout the year, and I would prefer…" Another uncomfortable glance. "If you stayed with the same partners—but of course, under… necessary… circumstances, swaps can be arranged personally with me. Your final grades for each assignment will depend on both of your contributions, so, happy working!"

Silence.

She was not quite sure what she expected to feel. Anger would have been logical, but she was tired, too tired to fight today, and all that filled her now was a slowly spreading sense of cold acceptance and dread. The other students had begun conversing with their neighbours, picking out necessary ingredients from their stashes and the ingredients cabinet. Michael was shaking Terry out of his unexplainable rage, which Hermione had yet to figure out.

It was Malfoy who moved first. Drawing his textbook out of his book bag, he flipped it open nonchalantly to the specified page and began gathering what was necessary. She was surprised by his willingness to partake in this paired activity, until he pulled the scales and cauldron towards his side of the table quite unceremoniously. She frowned.

"Malfoy, we're supposed to be working together."

"And I don't need your help," he snapped back while keeping his eyes on the scales, already measuring out the first ingredient. The icy dread in her stomach melted away, slowly giving way to irritation.

"And I don't either, but there's only one set of apparatus—"

"—So just watch and write your report."

" _Malfoy_." She called him out through gritted teeth, finally catching his attention. He turned to her with a face of irritation that rivalled her own. "Our grades depend on both of our contributions now, and I am _not_ going to sacrifice my grades because you _refuse to cooperate—_ "

He sniggered back at her. "I should be the one who's worried about you contaminating my grades—you couldn't even answer Slughorn's simple question just now, could you?"

She could punch his sneering face again right there. Upon inspection this up close, she could see that his nose never quite healed properly from when she broke it in third year. There was a small bump on the bridge of his nose that disrupted its sharpness, and the sight of it gave her pride a tiny boost and fuelled her current irritation.

"I will have you know—"

"Ah, Ms Granger, Mr Malfoy…"

Professor Slughorn had approached their bench, nervously holding on to two vials of leeches. Hermione noted that he looked fairly uncomfortable in Malfoy's presences. "You will be needing these… is there an issue?"

"I'd like to work alone," said Malfoy flatly.

"Ah… see, part of the reason we would prefer pair work is…" He looked rather sheepish at this point, and lowered his voice considerably so he would not be heard by the rest of the chattering classroom. "The apothecary that supplies our ingredients have fallen on hard times during the war and is still putting their stock back together. We'd be rather short on ingredients if all students were to work individually. I'm sorry, but…"

"Thank you, Professor, we'll get to work," Hermione said quickly. Professor Slughorn moved on with a speed that betrayed his desire to get away from their bench, leaving Hermione with two vials of blood-sucking leeches in her hands, and Malfoy scowling at the set-up before them.

000

By the middle of class, Draco was ready to hex the next living thing that got on his nerves. Granger was nowhere near as precise as he was in measurements and technique, making him wonder how she had managed to trump him every single year in this class.

She was careless—whether it was just this strange new Granger who was distracted and stupid, or whether she had always been this liberal with the quantities of ingredients, he did not know, he had never paid much attention to her habits in Potions-brewing. Twice now she had added a little too much of something to their brew, and now, instead of the bright green that they should be expecting, their brew was a sickening brownish-green that resembled troll vomit and was also emitting a rather concerning rumble.

"What the fuck did you do, Granger?" He spat at her as he glanced between his textbook and their cauldron. He had abandoned his robe at this point out of frustration and the unnatural amount of heat spewing forth from their cauldron, and had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows to give him more use of his hands. Her hair which had seemed somewhat deflated when he first saw her this year had inflated back to its usual volume and messiness, and she wore a look of confusion and panic that he had not seen since Potter became the Prince of Potions in sixth year.

"I don't know—I was following the instructions—maybe, maybe it's because we didn't add enough shrivelfig blood—"

"It can't be that, Granger, use your fucking brain," he swore rather liberally, earning him a disdainful look from Slughorn. "This colour derives from the daisy roots—"

"I added _exactly_ four—"

"Well maybe you're shit at chopping them then," he snapped at her, turning his attention back to the page before him. "Caterpillars next, don't mess up now—"

"Will you do something more productive rather than pointing out everything wrong with what I'm doing?!" She retorted without looking at him, and proceeded with the hairy caterpillars. Or what she thought were caterpillars.

Draco reached out a hand too late, and a leech fell into the cauldron with a resounding _plop_.

 _BANG_.

Draco was hit by a heat wave and he quickly brought his arm up to shield his face from whatever came at him. Someone was screaming. When he lowered his arm, he saw Granger frantically, comically, putting out flames on the left side of her head. Her mane, drenched in their failed concoction, had caught on fire from the blast. Upon examining his forearm, he realized that most of his arm hairs had been singed too.

He would have laughed if not for the fact that the class was now staring at them, some trying to hold back giggles, while others looked on with concern. Granger had managed to put of the flames, though her ridiculous hair could not be salvaged. Half her head still bore her signature mane, while the other had been burned down to perhaps two inches away from her panicked, tear-stained face.

"Ms Granger, are you alright?!"

"Y-Yes sir," she croaked out, covering her face. "I'm so terribly sorry—I was—"

"Simply stupid," he said it before he could gather his thoughts. He saw her flinch at the word and raise her teary eyes to him. The defiance he had expected to see in the Gryffindor's eyes was nowhere to be found, which only unnerved him more. This new Hermione only looked back at him with uncertainty and panic. "What were you thinking?! That's the third time you'd added something wrong to—"

"Mr Malfoy, these kinds of words are not necessary," Slughorn said, having suddenly grown a backbone or something. Draco glared at the man with his fists at his side.

"I told you—"

"No more of this today—I think Ms Granger must be tired from helping us to fix the castle..." Slughorn added, looking at the frazzled witch again with concern. "Class dismissed. Leave your potions for me to inspect—and I expect your reports on Thursday. Mr Malfoy, you will meet with me to discuss—Mr Malfoy!"

He had gathered up his robe and books in record speed the moment Slughorn had dismissed the class and stormed out of the dungeons, leaving behind the smoke and the chaos and this new _messed up Granger_ that made his inside knot up and squirm like Dumbledore's stupid portrait had.

She used to put up a fight. She used to match his jibes and made him feel challenged. She used to be _strong—_

His long legs carried him up the stairs two at a time, and only slowed on the landing that led to the Slytherin corridor when a sickening realization hit him.

Draco knew all of it quite well, having grown up around people who had tossed the curse around casually. The potential side effects of the Cruciatus Curse, the lasting trauma and damage to one's sanity. The Death Eaters, his fucked up aunt… they had relished in all of this pain and confusion and damage inflicted upon their victims.

He had been there, of course. When Bellatrix had Granger pinned to the marble floor of _his_ house. The images were part of his nightmares, had been ever since it happened, along with Dumbledore's last words to him. Screams—the kind of screams that would drive you to stab your wand into your own ears to stop hearing them. Granger's broken, writhing body, wrecked by the worst pain imaginable—

"Malfoy!"

He turned around at the sudden yell, and could only make out a blur of blue on the other person's lapel before a solid fist collided with his jaw, knocking him back against the wall. While he struggled to blink away the spots in his vision, the wind was knocked out of him with another punch, and he slid down against the wall, his legs giving way. His head was throbbing, and the sharp pain in his abdomen forced him to double over. His assailant gave him no chance to recover, and aimed a sharp kick against his thigh, forcing a pained grunt out of Draco.

There was a fluttering of robes—someone was attempting to restrain his assailant. Shouts.

"Terry—stop it—"

When Draco finally gathered himself, he saw Michael Corner desperately trying to hold back Terry Boot, whose face was beetroot red with anger and eyes were similarly bloodshot. He resembled a bull, ready to charge and run Draco over with as much force as he could muster. Other students from Potions class had arrived at the scene, and stood on the stairway leading up to the landing with wide, fearful eyes.

"He killed me dad… _THIS BASTARD'S DEATH EATER OF A FATHER KILLED ME DAD."_

Draco did not know, but he was not surprised. He pulled himself back up slowly against the wall, noticing small blood splatters across his white shirt from where Terry had split his lip. The Ravenclaw had finally stopped struggling. His outburst seemed to have taken some of the anger out of him, and now he stood with his fists shaking and chest heaving, still restrained by Michael.

"Me mam's in St Mungo's, did'ya know that? She stopped speaking after they hit 'er with the Cruciatus Curse. 4 of 'em. Took turns. Your scum of a father and his cronies," Terry squeezed his words out slowly, between deep breaths. He was trying so hard to control his anger that his whole person shook. "She won't even look at me now. How they let your bloody Death Eater arse out of Azkaban, I don't know—"

"Well it wasn't me, was it?"

"YOU'RE HIS SON, YOU HELPED TO KILL PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE—" Terry looked livid, and stepped out of Michael's grip when Michael had just loosened his arm a notch. He raised an accusing finger at Draco, his whole face contorted with rage. "HOW ARE YOU _ANY_ DIFFERENT?"

"How dare you—"

Terry must have caught sight of Draco's hand twitching towards his wand, because in the next moment, Draco was thrown back against the wall again, having been socked a second time on the same side of his face.

"You don't deserve to _live_ , Malfoy, you and your scum of an old man—"

" _Stop it!_ "

A mane of brown curls—or rather, half a mane of brown curls—appeared in his field of vision, facing Terry.

"Please, don't fight like this—"

"You're _defending_ him?!" Terry hissed. Draco looked over Granger's head to see Terry's bewildered gaze travel between her and him. "Hermione, have you forgotten—"

"No I have not, and I am _not defending him_ ," she said, returning somewhat to her old, resolute, _Gryffindor-to-the-moral-rescue_ voice. "But fighting like this now is bad, Terry—"

"Hermione, you've lost people too—"

"Yes but not to him," Hermione snapped back, and her voice fell immediately, taking on an imploring tone. "To… To people who were on the other side. Please, Terry—you have every right to be angry but just—"

It was all becoming too much. Granger had been messed up too bad—she was _defending_ him. The mudblood girl that was tortured in his house was _defending_ _him_.

"Out of my way, Granger."

She whipped around, eyes suddenly wide, concerned and terrified.

"Malfoy—"

"I said _out of my way_ , you filthy mud—" he barked at her, but the rest of his sentence was drowned out by another furious yell from the still-murderous Ravenclaw, who probably thought that he owed it to Hermione to defend her honour or something. Hermione flinched at both of their sudden outbursts, a mixture of shock and hurt flashing briefly in her eyes, which only added another kick to Draco's already hurting stomach.

 _Mudblood_. The insult had been literally carved into her by his deranged aunt. How could he forget.

Turning away quickly, he pushed past her and the rest of the crowd to limp his way down the corridor towards the common room.

"Malfoy, wait—"

He continued down the hallway carrying the last ounces of his dignity, ignoring the burning pain in his abdomen and Terry's ensuing threats following his exit.

The common room was quiet when he entered. The few occupants, younger students with fresh faces, stared at his bashed up face unashamedly, having undoubtedly heard the loud altercation in the hallway. He met their questioning, fearful gazes with a cold, hard glare of his own before weaving through the space and storming up the staircase to his dormitory.

He stopped abruptly in the doorway after bursting in—there, in the centre of the round room, stood another Slytherin that he barely recognized as someone from his year. Taller than he was, lanky, with brown hair and a chiselled face. He looked up from where he was bent over his trunk, and regarded Draco.

_Heryntton… something Heryntton._

The Herynttons were not one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but their status within the Wizarding world were just barely below that of the old pureblood-families. It was said that some ancestor of the Herynttons, a half-blood with some Muggle family fortune, made enough money in the the production of wizarding fineries to earn him entrance to the social circles of the wizarding aristocracy. Six generations later and their blood was purer than most others.

"Oh great, it's you," Heryntton spoke in a disinterested voice, and then furrowed his brows. "What happened to your face?"

Draco wanted to hex something.

"None of your business—and who the hell are you again?"

"Archie, short for Archibald, Heryntton."

Draco snorted. "Right."

"My Floo connection got delayed because some Muggle got attacked by one of the leftovers of _your_ lot yesterday, so I got in this morning," he continued, turning away from Draco to continue with his unpacking. "It's just the two of us now, I suppose."

Draco _really_ wanted to hex something. He stepped cautiously towards his bunk, two beds away from Heryntton's, and threw his robes onto his covers.

Apart from the Heryntton's family history, Draco knew next to nothing about his new roommate. He had never stood out, apart from being bullied during his first years for having a name like _Archibald_ , and in his later years faded even more into the background as Draco heard rumours about him being disowned by his family. It is unsurprising that he'd be back. He had spent most of his time with students in the other houses. He had been one of the few Slytherin students who had fought alongside Slughorn during the war, and one of the fewer that survived. Most of Draco's other schoolmates had transferred—Pansy to Beauxbatons, and Theodore up north to Durmstrang—or were under house arrest or simply thrown into Azkaban along with their parents.

The great downfall of Salazar Slytherin's protégés.

"So," Heryntton began again, and Draco fought the urge to sock him so hard that he would never speak again. "Why aren't you locked up? Aren't you one of them lot with your old man? He did some pretty bloody shite during the war—"

Draco lost the fight against what little was left of his rationality after the long day. He stormed up to Heryntton, who had just enough time to react to the angry footsteps behind him and turn around, and hit him hard across the jaw with a left hook. Heryntton stumbled and only managed to stay upright by catching on to one of his bedposts.

"Don't you _dare_ ," Draco hissed through gritted teeth, his head hot and pounding. "Say a word against my family."

Heryntton merely touched a hand to the corner of his bleeding mouth and moved his jaw about to confirm that nothing was broken. He let out a bemused chuckle without meeting Draco's livid gaze.

"Of course, _Malfoy_."

000

Hermione willed the steady stream of steaming hot water to wash away all that had happened to her that day. It had already taken her a full half hour to try to get gunk out of her matted curls, even with the aid of several spells. She had since given up, and cleaned the rest of herself, turning the heat up to draw out the fatigue in her muscles that have plagued her the whole day.

If she stayed in her long enough, maybe the water would take away the clouds that surrounded her mind. _Stupid_ , Malfoy had called her. She hated that she agreed with him. Her usually sharp mind had been taken over by an incessant buzzing of thoughts and images and voices and memories and being distracted by little things like how, just two week ago, she had uncovered a rotting, dismembered hand in Professor Flitwick's classroom, right by the collapsed windows—

By the time she stepped out in her bathrobe, her fingertips resembled prunes and her cheeks were flushed from the heat. She stood in front of the mirror, enchanted to prevent it from steaming up, and took the first good look at herself in a long time.

She was a mess. She could no longer deny it. Pulling back the folds of her bathrobe, she ran a wrinkly finger across her collarbones—they had never been this pronounced. She knew she had lost some weight, she didn't need to check to know that she would feel her ribs if she touched her torso, and find segments of her vertebrae easily if she touched her back. Her eyes had sported permanent dark circles for a long time now, having gotten minimal quality sleep over the past year.

She looked _tired._ She _was_ tired. Too tired to focus. Too tired to be angry at Malfoy for being a dick. Too tired to miss Harry and Ron.

Finally, she turned her attention to the newest indication of her recent failures. Running her hand through the shortened locks on her left and the matted curls on her right, she fought back a fresh wave of tears and bit down on her trembling lower lip. She had never been this careless in any situation before. It was terrifying to realize how much she did _not_ have a grip on things.

_Hermione Granger. The brave one. The smart one. The logical one._

_No longer._

Hermione looked at herself again in the mirror, and made a snap decision. Raising her wand, she moved it around her head while muttering _Diffindo_ under her breath, focusing all her attention on aligning her wand tip with the proper locks of her dirtied, tangled hair.

Moments later, her long curls laid in messy, gunky heaps around her slippered feet. She took in deep, shuddering breaths and found her reflection looking back from the mirror with a small, shaky smile. It looked alright, her new short, pixie-cut, for a do-it-yourself job in the middle of the girl's bathroom. She'd clean up the mess later—for now, she reached up and ran her fingers through the soft, wet curls that laid plastered to her scalp. The sleeve of her bathrobe fell to her elbow, and her eyes briefly glanced over the still healing scar on her forearm before she focused on her reflection once again.

She looked good—more put together. She briefly thought about how everyone was going to react to her in the morning, and opened her mouth to laugh—or at least, her image in the mirror seemed to—but the cackle that resonated in the bathroom was not hers. Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth and froze.

She would know that sharp cackle anywhere. The kind of laugh that told you something was not right with the owner of the voice. That something more terrible than your worst nightmares was about to happen to you.

Hermione trembled violently, her gaze fixated on the mirror—her reflection's eyes widened, and from directly behind her, a dreaded, familiar witch stepped out, with her crazed hair and heavy-lidded eyes and a nightmarish grin upon her face.

"Ooo, what a pity, love, I had wanted to rip those pretty locks off your head myself…"

Hermione whipped around and felt a scream tear through her throat. Then the world went black, as a sharp pain shot from her head through her body.


	5. Scars

She awoke peacefully this time—without corpses, without death. The room slowly came into focus with each blink and each dull throb in her head. The high ceiling of the hospital wing, the fabric screen next to her bed, and red hair, pulled back into a ponytail…

"G-Ginny…" Hermione croaked out—her throat was sandpaper dry. The redhead looked up quickly from whatever book she had open in her lap and turned her attention to Hermione with a look of relief.

"Hey now, take it slow… Madam Pomfrey gave you a Calming Potion and a Sleeping Draught. How are you feeling?"

Her head was throbbing slightly, but at Ginny's prompt, she slowly moved her limbs around under the covers. "Alright…" She finally said. "What happened?"

"Well… I heard you scream in the girls' bathroom so I rushed over with Demelza, and we found you on the ground—you must've hit your head on the sink or something. Professor McGonagall came pretty soon after and we brought you here."

"Oh—" Images from the night before slowly came back to Hermione in a haze. A high pitched cackle, a mane of mad, jet black hair, crazed eyes—

Dread flooded her bloodstream.

"Oh Merlin, Ginny—" Hermione's hand flew out from under the blanket and grabbed Ginny's arm in alarm. "Bellatrix—I saw Bellatrix in the mirror—she's here in the castle."

The lack of panic on Ginny's face irked her, as the younger girl continued to regard her with concern and worry. "Hermione, the first thing Professor McGonagall and the other professors did was to check for intruders in the castle… It's safe. No one's here."

"But—"

"Hermione, we saw her die. She's _gone_."

_Gone._

After a long moment of silence, Hermione let go of her grip on Ginny's arm, but her muscles remained tense. Hermione knew, rationally, that Bellatrix Lestrange was dead and gone, but it had felt so real. Her monstrous cackle, like nails on a chalkboard, was one that Hermione could not easily forget, and often heard—ringing out harshly and clearly—in her dreams—

"Hermione… Has this… Has this kind of things happened before? You know—"

"No," Hermione answered quickly, before Ginny could go on and paint her as a nut case. "No, not like this. I'm sorry—I must've just been tired."

Ginny was silent for a moment before forcing a small smile onto her face and giving Hermione's arm a reassuring squeeze.

"It's alright, you can rest now. But if this happens again, you have to let us help you, alright? We're with you in this—"

"Thanks, Ginny. I'll be alright. Really."

A few quiet moments passed before Ginny shifted her gaze to the top of Hermione's head, a grin slowly creeping up the corners of her mouth. "By the way—" Ginny's usual light, somewhat mischievous tone had returned to her voice. "The new hair is interesting. Why'd you cut it? I known you said you had a potions mishap, but Madam Pomfrey could have helped you grow it back out in a jiffy…"

Hermione couldn't help but return her smile with a quiet chuckle. "I got frustrated with it. What do you think?"

"I've only known you with long hair, so _this_ is definitely new. But I like it, I think, it seems like a good change. It's like you're a new Hermione now."

"A new Hermione?" She laughed at the odd comment. "What's new?"

Ginny's grin lost some of its mischief and gained a shadow of melancholy. "We all came out of the war slightly different, Hermione. You, me, Harry, my brothers—" she faltered for a second, and Hermione slipped her fingers into her hand. Ginny returned a soft smile. "New versions of ourselves."

"Mm…"

"Do you think we'd ever go back to how things were?"

Hermione looked straight at Ginny. The youngest Weasley had gained an immense amount of maturity after everything that had happened to her family in the past few years, but in this first proper conversation they have had since the end of the war, there was still a hint of youthful insecurity on the younger girl's face.

Hermione wished she had the answers.

"I think we move forward, Ginny. With our new selves, old selves… Forward."

Ginny answered with a small nod, and her usual warm smile returned to her face. "I'm going to fetch Professor McGonagall; she'd want to know that you're awake. I have Defence Against the Dark Arts right after, but I'll come get you after I'm done. I think Madam Pomfrey will let you out by then."

"Thanks, Ginny. But don't worry about me, go do what you need to"

"Don't go anywhere," Ginny joked as she got up and disappeared round the curtains.

Hermione spent the next couple of minutes lying quietly before the kindly Madam Pomfrey strode over to fuss over her. Fighting the throbbing in her head and mild vertigo, Hermione managed to sit up and lean on the pillows that Madam Pomfrey fluffed up and propped against the bars on the headboard with a swish of her wand. The matron applied a generous amount of balm to where Hermione had hit her head falling down, and she felt an almost immediate relief of the pressure within her skull that had been building since she came to. Madam Pomfrey had barely just left when Professor McGonagall drifted in, dark emerald robes billowing slightly around her ankles.

"Oh, Miss Granger…"

"Professor," Hermione responded with her most convincing 'I'm okay' smile as the Headmistress stood at the end of the bed and regarded Hermione over the top of glasses.

"You gave us quite the fright last night. How are you feeling this morning?"

"Much better, thank you. I-I think I should be able to get to classes—"

Professor McGonagall shook her head and held out a thin hand to stop Hermione from speaking further.

"The professors have all excused you from your lessons today; there will be no penalty. Please do rest." Hermione wanted to argue, but the strict yet concerned look on Professor McGonagall's face stopped her. After a brief moment of silence, her expression softened.

"Hermione… We do apologize—the professors and I all realized it was rather demanding of us to have asked you to aid us in rebuilding the castle and immediately expect you in seven N.E.W.T. classes."

"Not at all, Professor! I'm perfectly fine—"

It was a terrible lie, and she knew that the Headmistress was unconvinced, as she continued to look at Hermione in a way that betrayed her doubt and worry. Hermione shifted a little uncomfortably under the crisp, white sheets, unable to respond to the fact that now all her professors thought her incapable of handling herself—

"Would you care to tell me what happened last night?"

Hermione got the feeling that the Headmistress already had an inkling of what could have possibly happened. She took a shuddering breath before answering, her right hand absentmindedly playing with the left sleeve of the sleeping gown that Madam Pomfrey must have changed her into.

"I came out of the shower, and thought I saw Bel—someone in the mirror. I got startled and must have slipped when I turned around."

She glanced up briefly to meet Professor McGonagall's gaze. She felt exposed—far too exposed—as the Headmistress assessed her.

"And has this happened before?"

"…No, Professor. Just this once. I'm terribly sorry for alerting everyone."

"There's nothing to apologize for, Miss Granger. Things have not been easy on you," She responded rather vaguely in a soft, yet level voice. Hermione felt a sudden inexplicable urge to laugh and let out a couple of badly disguised coughs, which caused Professor McGonagall's brow to furrow.

 _Things have not been easy on you_. Were 'things' ever? But even when they weren't easy, she had never been beaten back before—it felt like an utter betrayal to herself to begin accepting this as an excuse now.

"…Rest for today, Miss Granger. And please, do not hesitate to talk to us if you… Well, should you need anything," Professor McGonagall said with an air of finality and clasped her hands together gently. "Is there anything I can get for you right now?"

"N-No, Professor, thank you very much."

With a small nod, the Headmistress turned and headed towards the doors of the hospital wing, leaving Hermione sitting up in her bed with nothing much to keep her occupied but her suffocating thoughts. She laid down once again to try to catch some more sleep, but she was far too awake. Somewhere in a far corner of her head, Bellatrix's high-pitched cackle was still reverberating.

Hermione pulled the sheets tighter around herself.

An hour or so passed while she tossed and turned in her bed, listening to the light drizzle outside that fell upon the windows with a soothing rhythm. It helped a little—but her fingers still found their way to the residual scar on her forearm.

 _Mudblood_.

It had stopped hurting about a week after she got it, and then the pain changed into a sharp iciness that penetrated her flesh down to her bones and nipped at her skin every now and then. At first, Ron had to constantly stop her scratching at the scabs until blood ran down to her fingertips in thin trickles just to stop the sensation. They had tried all manners of healing spells that she knew of, but it refused to budge. Whatever was on Bellatrix's blade was something far darker and older than what they knew.

Eventually, she learned to ignore iciness. She barely felt it anymore. Until yesterday, in the bathroom, when she paid attention to it again after so long, however briefly.

She pressed her palm of her free hand over the raised welts in her skin, hoping that some of the warmth would transfer to her freezing forearm, but the cold had seeped beneath her skin. Bellatrix might as well have carved her insult directly into Hermione's bones. It sure felt that way. Whatever Malfoy had yelled at her in his moment of rage and humiliation was a whisper in the wind compared to how the brand on her arm made her feel.

"Hermione?"

She quickly took her hand off her arm and pulled the sleeve of her sleeping gown back down as Ginny's head popped back round the corner of the screen with a grin, which she returned with some effort. Ginny had barely just sat down on the chair by the bed when Madam Pomfrey reemerged and shooed her off. The redhead strode over to stand at the end of the bed with her arms crossed, watching the matron work with ease and efficiency as she checked Hermione's vitals again and reapplied the balm to the back of her head.

"You are ready to go back to your dormitory, Miss Granger. Just remember—no vigorous activity for the next few days, else your head may start feeling a tad tender again," Madam Pomfrey stepped back after she was done and smiled at Hermione. "Is there anything else I can get for you my dear?"

"No, it's alright Madam Pomfrey. Thank you very much."

With a small nod, the matron strode away with her tray of treatments. Ginny shifted her book bag on her shoulder and raised her eyebrows.

"Well, ready to head back to the Tower?"

Hermione slipped out of bed slowly, taking care to follow Madam Pomfrey's instructions. She retrieved her neatly folded and cleaned bathrobe from the bedside table and threw it over her nightgown before following Ginny out of the hospital wing.

If she had felt self-conscious the day before, walking back to Gryffindor Tower with her half-scorched off hair and brown gunk all over her robes, it was only worse now. An afternoon period had just ended, and students were filing into the hallways on their way to their next classes or to their dormitories.

Ginny made a wonderful companion, staring down anyone who remotely looked at Hermione for longer than a second. But she could still feel their stares and catch their whispers.

" _Is that…"_

"… _is she alright?"_

" _What happened to her hair?"_

She pulled her bathrobe around her more tightly and raised her chin in feigned composure as Ginny walked her the rest of the way back to the Fat Lady, who was nursing a glass of wine in her portrait.

"Password, dears?"

" _Fortis in arduis_."

"Right you are," The Fat Lady responded with a hearty laugh and swayed slightly in her chair as the portrait swung open to let them in. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief to find it still relatively void of people—apart from a pocket of second-years near the fireplace and Neville and Dean at the table by the window, who both looked up as the girls entered.

"Hey Gin— _Oh_."

The stunned look on her friends' faces brought, for the first time that day, a genuine, albeit small, smile onto Hermione's face. She knew that there would be no maliciousness, no gossip behind their reactions to her new look.

"Bloody hell, Hermione," whistled Dean. "I never could've imagined you with short hair. This is…"

"…It's so… _different_ ," Neville finished for him, to which Dean nodded, glancing between Neville and Hermione. "Are you feeling better, Hermione? We heard you hurt yourself in the bathroom—"

As the topic changed to her mishap in the bathroom the night before, Hermione felt the smile slipping from her cheeks.

"I-I'm fine, really. I just slipped and hit my head on the tiles."

"Ouch, that sounds terrible—" Neville cast her a concerned look, but probed no further. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Yes, thanks Neville—I think I'll go up to get changed now."

With that, they bid goodbye to the boys and headed up the spiral staircase to the girls' dormitory, where Hermione was finally able to change into her normal school robes. She left her hospital sleeping gown along with the rest of her laundry, knowing that the house elves would sent it back to the hospital wing when they were done with it.

"What do you want to do before dinner?" Ginny asked, sitting down on her own bed and picking up Arnold, her small, squeaking Pygmy Puff, from her bedside table, stroking it gently. It purred and nuzzled itself comfortably into Ginny's palm.

"Well," Hermione started, picking up her book bag and checking its contents. "I was thinking of going to the library—"

" _Hermione_."

She cringed a little at Ginny's scolding tone. Arnold squeaked—undoubtedly miffed that Ginny had stopped petting him.

"Ginny, I've been in bed all day. I haven't done anything at all today and I just need to—"

"You need to _rest_."

"I've been resting! The whole afternoon! I just need to get—" _Some normalcy back in my life_. "I just need to get some reading done. I'll meet you for dinner, I promise."

"…Alright then. Oh, I almost forgot—" Ginny reached into her book bag and shoved a roll of parchment at Hermione. "I took notes for you in Defence Against the Dark Arts today, if you want to take a look."

"Thanks Gin—Wait, who's teaching it? Professor McGonagall never mentioned who was finalized for the position—"

"The Ministry sent an Auror to take the position for now, before we can find a proper teacher. McGonagall trusts the Ministry, now that Kingsley's in charge of things. Some bloke by the name of Blackmore—tough bloke, but can't really teach that well. Has a big scar running down his face to his cheek. Reminds me of… reminds me a little of Mad-Eye, really—but only appearance-wise."

Hermione caught the small, sad smile that flashed across Ginny's features, and felt whatever comforting words she was about to offer choke up in her throat.

"…Well, I guess I'll see for myself next week," Hermione finally said, in an attempt to divert the conversation away from loss. Ginny shrugged and got up to feed a treat to Arnold, cooing at it softly. Hermione swung her book bag onto her shoulder, habitually reaching to dislodge her mane from their inevitable fate of being caught under the shoulder strap. When her hand went through thin air, she glanced down with a quizzical look before she remembered that her mess of curls had probably already been swept off the bathroom floor and disposed of.

She picked up the small mirror from her bedside counter, using her free hand to roughly sweep her hair into an acceptable, neat style with a side part. With one last check to make sure that she had no awkward bits sticking up here and there from being knocked out for over twelve hours, she stepped out of the doors of the dormitory.

 _A new Hermione_.

 

000

 

It had been a shit day.

Although Draco had sat, once again, a solid distance away from the rest of the occupants at the Slytherin table, he still caught some movement out of the corner of his eye of some third-years shifting their butts down the benches, away from him, as he settled into his breakfast.

If he were in their position, he wouldn't want to sit next to himself either, in all honesty.

Herbology that day had been, for all intents and purposes, boring, with Madam Sprout's overenthusiasm for plants and Longbottom replacing Granger as teacher's pet. Terry Boot had accidentally on purpose dropped a shovelful of dirt on Draco loafers, which Draco spent the rest of the day trying to clean out, but no matter how many times he shook his shoe out, he could still feel a few bumps right beneath the balls of his feet.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was perhaps the most ironic class that the Ministry had put him in. There was no doubt that his grades would have made the class, but the situation could not have been more uncomfortable. Walking into the afternoon period reminded him of his trial a few months ago, when he had been paraded in front of the whole Wizengamot before being allowed to sit down right in the center, gathering their scrutinizing and disapproving gazes.

There was really no difference between that and walking into this classroom—many of the students here had fought in the War, against him, against _his kind_. He settled into a table in the last row, glaring back icily at anyone who turned around to look at him. The seventh-year Hufflepuff in front of him shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her quick glances around other empty seats around the room betraying her intentions to move.

If only to make matters worse, the Auror that had appeared at his house over summer to retrieve Rookwood's incapacitated body was _teaching_ this class, though Draco was most certain that Blackmore had spent the entire period keeping his eyes on Draco alone. _Surveillance_. It had to be. The Auror might be good at what he usually does, but he was a _shit_ professor.

The sole oddity of the day had been Granger's absence in Defence Against the Dark Arts, which gnawed at his insides more than he could control. He could not recall a single instance of her missing classes in all the years that Draco had known her and shared classes with her—except those two times in second year: once when she had been Petrified, and the other for some unexplained reason. There was something about furballs, though twelve-year-old Draco did not think much further about it back then.

The moment Blackmore ended class—much to the relief of the clump of Gryffindors that sat several rows in front of him, who immediately began chattering about how incompetent their new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher was—Draco let off the tension that had been gripping his shoulders the whole class. As he got up to leave, a snippet of the Gryffindors' conversation made its way to his ears.

"Ginny, is Hermione alright?" The lanky, dark Gryffindor asked. Dean Thomas. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw the youngest Weasley nod quickly.

"Oh yeah, she woke up right before I came to class, and she's well—Madam Pomfrey's checked for a concussion, which she doesn't have, thank Merlin. I'm going to go pick her up from the hospital wing now. Meet you guys back in the common room?"

"Sure, Ginny."

Draco hung back for two steps to put some distance between himself and the gaggle of Gryffindors ahead of him as they walked down the corridor to the main staircase. Granger had a _concussion_? The only mishap he recalled from the day before was their potions disaster, and that was barely enough to give anyone a bump, much less a concussion—though given her carelessness, she might as well have slipped on a stair and bumped her head on the way down or something—

"Oh hey, Malfoy."

Draco stopped abruptly as he reached the landing of the third floor staircase. Archie stood at the top of steps, book bag casually swung over one shoulder. A Ravenclaw girl, likely a friend, stood a few steps below, looking visibly anxious at the two Slytherin's interaction.

"Headed back to the common room?" Archie asked, raising an eyebrow at Draco, his expression void of antagonism. Draco felt the urge to hex him bubble up again in his gut.

" _The hell I am_."

He pushed past the other Slytherin and let his feet carry him upstairs instead, up a flight of stairs and down several corridors, until he found himself in front of the carved double doors of the library.

It took a few deep breaths and the laughter of some girls round the corner of the corridor to push him through the doors into the rather empty library. He walked straight past the librarian, wanting nothing to do with her ever judgmental gaze, and ducked into the small alcove that he had not set foot in for two years now. He made his way with hesitant steps towards the large, round desk, nestled in the alcove while the dreary weather outside painted the restored windows with raindrops.

Given all that had happened, he wouldn't be surprised if she never came to this spot again, Draco mused. He knew that she continued using this spot after his mishap in sixth year, when he nearly, _very nearly_ told her about his crimes. But she didn't know anything back then. Now that she did, he wondered briefly for a moment what she would do if she ever came back and found him here. Hex him to Salazar's grand mausoleum and back, probably.

The thought stirred something oddly melancholic in his chest, knowing that nothing could ever go back to being normal— _was their unspoken library arrangement ever normal in the first place?_ —after everything. He swallowed the nagging feeling of unease and pulled out some spare parchment to start work on the post-mortem of his— _their_ —potions disaster the day before.

Half an hour of scribbling and angry cross-outs later, Draco threw down his quill in frustration and raked his hands through his hair. He had a hazy memory of what Granger had done wrong during Potions, and a correct diagnosis of what went wrong required him to _know_ exactly what had been added to the cauldron, in what quantities, in what order. He had done this a million times on his own—and though he knew the individual properties of each ingredient well enough, having at least some knowledge of Granger's actions would have helped him to work backwards through the mechanism—

Footsteps approached the alcove, stopping a few steps away from the desk. Draco cast his attention up at the owner, determined to bark out a warning for them to stay away, until his eyes widened and registered the bizarre view in front of him. His voice left him in that second.

In Draco's head (as well as many others', he reckoned), the lightning scar was to Potter as bushy, brunette hair was to Granger. It was just a _part_ of them. It took him a long moment, longer than usual, to process the figure standing rigidly in the entryway to the alcove, although she had the same splatter of freckles, the same prudish, neat uniform, the same boulder of a book bag weighing down on her shoulder.

"Stop _staring_ at me, Malfoy," she hissed, breaking him out of his trance. He felt his usual scowl crawl back up onto his face.

"Granger," he said in a low drawl. "Decided to torch the rest of your mop of hair off, did you?"

She clenched her jaw and took two steps forward.

"I swear to Merlin, Malfoy—"

" _Shhh!_ "

The sharp hush from the librarian made them both jump, and Granger ducked deeper into the alcove, with her arms crossed over her chest. He continued scowling at her—noticing, however, for the first time, how she couldn't hold his gaze quite as steadily as she did in the past when they argued. Her eyes darted too frequently to the shelves behind him, her breathing came in too quickly, and there was something simply _missing_ in her glare that he had gotten used to challenging.

The Granger that stood before him at this moment was incapable of fighting, he realized. And if she did indeed have an injury, it would hardly be fair to challenge her now. Draco swallowed his impending comeback and sank back down into his seat with a little more force than necessary. Moments later, she settled down two seats away from him and pulled out her splatter-covered potions notes.

"I'm… I'm _sorry_ about Potions yesterday," she muttered, her voice barely audible even in the quiet of the library. "I wasn't myself. Now, what is this report about?"

Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of their age, jumping straight into homework an hour after being released from the hospital wing. Draco couldn't quite decide if he respected her or detested her for it.

 

000

 

"…so we can conclude that the pungent odour was due to the reaction between the daisy roots and the excess wormwood—"

"The normal reaction between daisy roots and wormwood would be a metallic blue sheen to surface of the potion, Granger, no odour—"

"Not unless it was under high heat conditions and in the presence of high iron concentration from the shrivelfig and caterpillar blood—" Hermione flipped through her copy of _Advanced Potion-Making_ for a moment and found the right page where she had scribbled down a relevant note in the margins. She shoved it triumphantly under Malfoy's nose, whose indifferent glance at her notes slowly turned into a scowl. "I think we can safely say that the metallic blue sheen was overpowered by the brown hue from the boiled leeches."

"…Fair assessment."

A good hour had passed since she arrived in her old spot, and since then the unlikely duo had made much progress in their Potions report. Malfoy was his old, holier-than-thou, condescending self, and Hermione had to grit her teeth through the beginning of their discussion to stop herself from storming away and forsaking their report.

But as the conversation shifted away from her incompetency in the previous class and to the actual analysis at hand, Malfoy had been helpful to say the least, constantly bringing up how the ingredients in the Shrinking Solution could have interacted in complex ways that Hermione was not even familiar with. She was never going to _admit it_ , that Draco Malfoy thought more deeply about Potions ingredients that she did, which was why her intel on the daisy roots and wormwood gave her so much pleasure. She at least knew this _one thing_ that Malfoy had forgotten.

They turned to their respective parchments to note down this new information; Hermione pausing every now and then to run her right hand over the forearm on her left, pressing her palm into the chill that spread under her sleeve.

"Heard you got your head bashed up yesterday."

Her hand gripped her forearm tightly for a moment, before returning to her parchment and picking up her abandoned quill. She stole a quick glance over to Malfoy, who did not look up from his parchment.

"…News travels fast."

Malfoy snickered, still focused on his parchment, his quill gliding elegantly over the page. Hermione cast her eyes back to her own assignment as well, quickly noting down the last few details of their discussion.

"…Does it still hurt?"

"What?"

"The scar."

She snapped her attention back to Malfoy, who was looking at her now—or rather, her forearm—with an unreadable expression. She swallowed hard, fighting the panic that pricked at her insides every time she _consciously_ thought about the mark on her arm.

"What does it matter to you?"

"Her blade, it's cursed. Old magic," Dropping his voice to a low whisper, Malfoy's stormy grey eyes flitted up for a second to meet hers, before turning to look down at the desk. "It leaves a mark."

A few seconds of silence passed between them, punctuated by the sound of someone dropping a book in the next aisle.

"…It feels icy, sometimes," she began carefully. Malfoy showed no sign of registering her words and continued staring at a single spot on the table. "It comes and goes. Most days I don't notice it. But sometimes, it comes back and it feels like I'm quite literally freezing down to my bones."

He gave her a barely noticeable nod, and went back to scribbling furiously on his parchment. Hermione held her gaze on him for a moment longer, expecting him to say something now that he had begun the conversation, but he did not look up again.

Furrowing her brows in confusion, she turned back to her own work. A few minutes later, there was a noise of parchment being torn. Malfoy shuffled his notes into a pile and slid everything into his backpack, getting up to leave.

"We have enough for three rolls of parchment," he said flatly. When Hermione was about to respond, he slipped a torn corner of parchment towards her.

 

_Arcane Potions. Leopold Blackwater. Pg 121._

_Belladonna_

_Foxglove_

_Aconite_

_Ground blowfish liver_

_Bee sting_

…

 

"What—"

"Go find the book in the restricted section. The specific quantities and instructions are there. Make it into a paste and apply it to your arm. Don't drink it—" Malfoy pressed his voice even lower than before, though he kept his expression blank. Hermione couldn't quite tell if he was speaking to himself or her.

"Well, of course not, most of these things on their own will kill you—"

In that moment, Hermione felt almost glad to see a hint of Malfoy's characteristic smirk crawl back onto his face, albeit a slightly twisted version, almost hiding a sense of self-deprecation.

"…You fight fire with fire. Don't mess this one up, Granger, and don't blame it on me if you do."

With that, he squeezed out of the alcove, leaving Hermione alone holding the fragmented parchment in her trembling fingers.

 

000

 

For some reason, his legs had carried him here. When he realized, his lungs failed him.

He had been toying absentmindedly with the signet ring on his right hand, the one of old goblin gold bearing the Malfoy family crest. Bearing the Malfoy name and all the dirt and blood that came along with it. The violence and the superiority. The violence. _The violence—_

The kind of violence that broke his schoolmates' families and even the strongest of his schoolmates themselves. The kind of violence that was eating away at his insides, starved by defeat, inciting Draco to fight, to destroy, to break. To _feed_ it what it needs. But all it had been consuming for the past few years was Draco himself.

When he looked up from his ring, he was here. The landing leading up to the Astronomy Tower was an echo chamber for the ghoulish cries of violence within Draco's chest. With every wave of its claw and every bite at Draco's insides, the walls closed in an inch more, until Draco had to _fight_ his lungs to take in breaths from the rapidly shrinking space.

And then he heard it. His dead aunt's taunts, echoing in his skull, clear as day.

" _Do it, Draco! Kill him!"_

He turned around and ran.

 

000

 

Hermione had managed to gather all the necessary ingredients, but not without bending some rules here and there. The potion called for some components, like blowfish liver, that were only accessible to authorized and qualified witches and wizards, and so she had to approach Professor Slughorn directly in his study with feigned enthusiasm for the semester's Slug Club luncheons and promises of "for academic purposes only" to obtain several ingredients.

With that cleared, letting herself into the greenhouses to gather the rest of the restricted plant ingredients was a piece of cake. By the time she returned to the common room after dinner, she was exhausted, having carried her books _and_ numerous vials and bottles with her the whole way.

She stole away to a shower cubicle in the girl's bathroom, knowing that the perfumed steam in the bathroom would hide any odours that came out of the potion. She dried a patch on the tiles with a quick wave of her wand and settled down with the book in her lap, cauldron set up before her.

Four hours and a hundred and seven carefully timed steps later, she achieved the silvery white, pleasant-smelling paste that the book called for. Despite her fatigue, her watery eyes from the vapours, and all the discomfort from sitting on the floor, she was filled with a comforting sense of achievement and content.

It took much more effort than usual, but she had done it. She could do it.

She picked up some of the paste with flat spatula and scrutinized it. For something so potent and poisonous, it looked absolutely harmless—like most poisonous things, she mused. Pulling up her sleeve, she held her breath as she carefully spread the paste across her forearm, taking care to cover the entirety of the scar.

At first, there was a pleasant, warm tingle against her skin. And then it began _scalding_.

She bit down hard on her lower lip and fought back painful tears, using her free hand to hold her arm steady—the book had said that the process could be painful for some, as the paste drew out the remnants of the curse from under her skin—

But what if Malfoy had lied? Why did she even trust him in the first place? What if this was another age old potion to cause her more pain—

The silver white paste was smoking lightly and gradually turning black. Jet black. It was hardening at the same time, pinching the skin underneath it painfully as it solidified into a dark, charcoal-like crust over her forearm.

Finally, the scorching subsided. Hermione let out a quiet, defeated sob and dropped her chin to her chest, letting the tears fall for a moment before she picked the crust off with shaky, weak fingers. She stumbled out of the cubicle, almost falling twice because her legs had fallen asleep after being crossed for so long, and scrubbed her arm under the cool tap water for a good two minutes before she could bring herself to look at it through her teary eyelashes.

It was clean.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fortis in arduis - strong in difficult times! Yes! Which is how I would have liked to feel these past two weeks. I am terribly sorry for the inactivity over the past 2 weeks, but I had to submit about 52 pages of academic writing on top of two finals and it had been rather brutal. So I am making it up to everyone with this extra long chapter!
> 
> Reading your reviews always make my day and it lets me know how I'm doing so far with the story, what some of your concerns are, and what you want to see more of. So I would love if you would leave a review below and tell me what you think, or even just to say hi :) I would love to get to know my readers better!
> 
> If you have just finished finals like I have, yay you! If you are procrastinating your studying for finals by reading this fic, go back to studying! You can do it! It's so very near the holidays!


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